IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


u  m 


I  «s  Ml" 

m 

U    1111.6 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

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^;i:tfjf'^sMJ'.--&'i^.tri<i--''-f^^^^v'snm^^^^^ 


^e^mimmmmm&^m^^ssm^^' 


4rp 


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Ua 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


S»9i««S®Bi#4S&?2SSe 


"fTP^-^SS^t-??'*' 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques  * 


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D 
D 
D 
D 
D 
D 
D 
D 

D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
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Couverture  endommagie 

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Couverture  restaurAe  et/ou  peiiiculie 

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Transparence 

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n~|  Pages  damaged/ 

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I — I  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I      I  Pages  detached/ 

r~n  Showthrough/ 

I      I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

[~~~]  Includes  supplementary  material/ 


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This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmi  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


f 


12X 


16X 


20X 


^ 


28X 


32X 


re 

I6tails 
98  du 
Tiodifier 
9r  une 
llmage 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

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Photoduplication  Service 

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Library  of  Congress 
Photoduplication  Service 

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de  la  nettetd  de  l'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


es 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim^e  sont  film^s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmds  en  commenqant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmds  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichd,  il  est  filmd  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


errata 
I  to 


9  pelure, 
on  d 


f 


D 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

IE 


rz 


j«g«— '5|»» 


K 


f: 


"  My  pri^cious  inotlicr,"    Page  (i: 


f'luiilhiiiae 


ONE  QUIET  LIFE. 


BY 


MRS.  J.  J.  COLTER, 

AUTHOR  OF  "ROBIE   MEREDITH. 


^3i^- 


Boston: 
Published  by  0.  Mhrop  &  Co, 

(Lover,  JJ.  H.:  G.  T.  (Day  &-  Co. 


Vi 


I; 


mmmwunmatiM 


mni itrirffirniiiiiiirriliMaaagiigiiiilM 


\  "■'■**; 


Copyright,  1876,  by  D.  Lothrop  &  Co. 


" 


IP  H 


&  Co. 


ir  "^ 


'm 


.  > 


" 


m 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

CHILDHOOD. 

CHAPTER  II. 

PLAYFELLOWS.        .  «  • 

CHAPTER  III. 

FOEESHADOWINGS. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

BEBBAVBMBNT.       .  •  • 

CHAPTER  V. 

STTJDT.  .  .  •  • 

CHAPTER  VI. 

OONYEBSION. 


•  . 


i 


rAOB 

7 


14 


.        »        • 


19 


29 


41 


61 


I 


I 
I 

I 


mrmfff'inrffMilii 


r 


IV  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

rAoi 
ORPHANED.  61 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

CHANGES 70 

CHAPTER  IX. 

SCHOOL. 81 

CHAPTER  X. 

A  PLEASANT  MEETING.  ...  86 

CHAPTER  XI. 

A  REVELATION.       .....  96 

CHAPTER  XII. 

COMMENCEMENT  EXERCISES.  .  ,  103 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

REPENTANCE. JH 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

HOLIDATS 118 

CHAPTER  XV. 

WILIE'S  DEATH.  ....  131 


mAK 


PAOB 

61 


70 


81 


86 


96 


103 


111 


118 


131 


.        •        •        • 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

DOCTOR  DOWSE. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

HOME  AQAm 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

OLD  FBIENDS 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  8UBPUISB 

CHAPTER  XX. 

MABBYINQ. 


•  • 


VAOB 

141 


153 


166 


178 


187 


mmimmmtimiiiti 


***" 


ONE   QUIET   LIFE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


CHILDHOOD. 


CAN  just  dimly  recollect  the  country 
village  we  lived  in  before  my  father  re- 
moved to  N.  I  know  the  cottage  used  as  a 
parsonage  was  a  pleasant  one.  It  was  situated 
on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  surrounded  by  a  strip  of 
meadow,  where  I  used  to  pick  the  yellow  but- 
tercups and  dandelions,  and  hunt  low  down  in 
the  grass  for  the  little  purple  flowers  of  which 
no  one  seemed  to  know  the  name ;  I  loved  their 
modest  faces  so  well  I  could  think  of  nothing 


1 


IK 


8 


One  Quiet  Life. 


pretty  enough  to  call  them,  unless  it  was 
"Meta,"  after  my  owA  violet-eyed  motlier.  I 
had  no  playfellow  except  Marco,  a  great,  shaggy, 
brown  dog  with  eyes  that  reminded  me  of  the 
deep  well  in  the  orchard;  perhaps  it  was  he- 
cause  he  always  looked  so  beseechingly  at  me 
when  I  went  near  it  to  play. 

I  can  remember  attending  the  church  where 
my  father  used  to  preach,  but  once ;  then,  though 
I  watched  eagerly,  I  could  only  now  and  then 
catch  a  glimpse  of  his  curls  above  the  top  of  the 
high  pulpit.     The  singing  sounded  so  strangely 
to  me;  the  choir  still  clung  to  those  ojd-fash- 
ioned  tunes,  in  which  the  different  parts  chase 
each  other  with  the  utmost  strength  of  voice  and 
speed.    I  was  accustomed  at  home  to  hear  my 
mother's  sweet,  yet  rich  voice  in  our  pleasant 
twilight  hours,  which  father  always  devoted  to 
us,  singing  those  beautiful  airs  that  seemed  a 
part  of  her  being ;  but  this  church  music  was  so 
different;   I  clung  to  mother's  dress  in  silent 
misery  until,  in  what  was  I  suppose  the  most 


f 


Childhood. 


i 


uless  it  was 
id  motlier.  I 
great,  shaggy, 
ed  me  of  the 
ps  it  was  be- 
hiugly  at  me 

5hurch  where 
thon,  though 
ow  and  then 
he  top  of  the 
I  so  strangely 
ose  ojd-fash- 
;  parts  chase 
of  voice  and 
to  hear  my 
our  pleasant 
3  devoted  to 
at  seemed  a 
uusic  was  so 
Bss  in  silent 
se  the   most 


j 


i 


\ 


impassioned  part,  I  slipped  down  beside  her, 
burying  my  face  in  her  lap  to  hush  the  wail  that 
sounded  through  it  all.  The  graveyard,  with  its 
icy  children  nestling  under  the  grass,  came  up 
before  me  together  with  the  dreary  picture  that 
often  haunted  me  of  father  and  mother  lying  in 
their  coffins,  gone  far  away  from  their  child.  I 
cried  myself  quiet  in  her  lap,  the  voices  of  the 
singers  drowning  my  sobs.  I  never  wished  to 
go  to  that  church  again  and  my  parents  in  that 
respect  humored  my  fancies. 

After  we  removed  to  N.  the  long  holiday  I 
had  enjoyed  ever  since  I  could  remember  came 
to  an  end.  Father  thought  it  was  high  time  for 
my  school-day  life  to  begin.  I  would  have 
greatly  preferred  the  public  school  with  the 
companionship  of  children  of  my  own  age  to  the 
long  silent  mornings  in  father's  little  study, 
while  the  sun  was  cheerily  shining  outside  and 
Marco  eagerly  watching  on  the  door-step,  wait- 
ing for  a  race  with  me  down  to  the  brook,  which 
rippled  alone  through  the  meadow,  and  by  the 


a 


mi 


m 


One  Quiet  life. 


edge  of  the  thicket  where  we  used  to  paudle  ia 
the  water,  or  hunt  fruitlessly  for  bird's  nests  un- 
der the  trees. 

At  first,  instead  of  such  fun,  I  used  to  find  it 
hard  to  puzzle  over  difficult  words  in  the  read- 
ing lesson  and  tiresome  sums  that  would  scarcely 
ever  come  right,  but  by  degrees  I  came  to  like 
the  stillness  of  the  quiet  study,  with  the  steady 
scratching  of  father's  pen,  or  the  monotonous 
beat  of  his  footsteps  as  he  paced  to  and  fro  in 
deep  thought.  I  grew  to  like  even  better  the 
gradual  inception  of  knowledge.  Father  had 
such  a  way  of  interesting  me  in  the  lessons ;  he 
tried  to  make  me  think  for  myself,  while  he 
taught  from  Lis  own  wide  stores  of  knowledge 
rather  than  the  text  book  that  often  lay  unused 
on  our  study  table. 

When  I  was  scarcely  nine  he  thought  me 
sufficiently  advanced  to  commence  Latin  and 
French.  I  was  his  only  child,  and  all  the  ambi- 
tion centered  in  me  which  he  had  cherished 
about  the  boy  who  never  came  to  gladden  his 


[  to  paadle  ia 
L'd's  nests  un- 

sed  to  find  it 

in  the  read- 

ould  scarcely 

came  to  like 

th  the  steady 

monotonous 

;o  and  fro  in 

in  better  the 

Father  had 

i  lessons ;  he 

slf,  while  he 

f  knowledge 

n  lay  unused 

thought  me 
3  Latin  and 
all  the  ambi- 
id   cherished 

gladden  his 


[ 


Childhood. 


ti 


heart.  I  can  recall,  even  now,  the  long  conver- 
sations he  and  mother  used  to  have  about  my 
future ;  every  retrenchment  was  to  be  made  in 
'  the  little  household  that  money  might  be  saved 
to  give  me  a  thorough  education ;  while  the  ut- 
most care  was  taken  of  my  health ;  coarse  food 
was  unspairingly  given  but  it  was  only  when 
enjoying  a  holiday  with  some  little  friend  in  the 
town  that  a  delicate  morsel  of  cake  or  pie  found 
its  way  to  my  unaccustomed  lips. 

With  father  accompanying  me,  I  took  daily 
walks  across  hill  and  moor,  our  tramp  frequently 
extended  over  many  weary  miles ;  when  he  waa 
ill,  which  soon  came  to  be  pretty  frequently,  I 
was  obliged  to  go  alone  with  only  Marco  for  at- 
tendant. This  hardy  training  was  the  best  for 
me,  I  grew  stronger  every  day,  notwithstanding 
the  severe  study  father  urged  upon  my  only  too 
willing  brain.  Afterward  I  came  to  have  other 
playfellows  beside  Marco. 

As  I  passed  to  and  fro  in  my  walks  I  noticed 
one  day,  an  unusual  stir  going  on  about  the  little 


ii 


-■•^"ISP 


#-   .-i 


n 


One  Quiet  Life. 


cottage  at  the  foot  of  our  lane ;  it  had  stood  un- 
occupied ever  since  we  came  to  N.  much  to  my 
regret,  none  of  our  immediate  neighbors  had 
children  and  my  only  hope  of  getting  human 
play-fellows  lay  in  the  future  occupants  of  this 
cottage.  As  I  stood,  this  day,  eagerly  watching 
the  proceedings  and  longing  to  discover  some 
Bignri  of  childien,  a  large  good-natured-looking 
woman  who  had  been  bustling  about,  as  I 
thought,  in  every  one's  way,  soon  spied  my 
anxious  little  face,  peeping  through  the  fence, 
and  coming  quickly  to  my  side  she  said, 
cheerily:  ..• 

"Well,  my  little  giil,  and  what  might  your 
name  be?"  ' 

"  Dorothy  Thurston,"  I  timidly  answered. 

"  Thurston,  why  are  you  the  ministers  child  ?  " 

"Yes,  he  is  my  father."  I  waited  for  no  fur- 
ther questioning  and  with  a  beating  heait,  asked 
earnestly :  "  Have  you  any  children.  Ma'am  ?  " 

"Children?  why  bless  your  heart  deaiie  I 
have  nothing  much  but  children." 


m 


Childhood. 


m 


lad  stood  un- 
mucli  to  my 
jighbora  hud 
ttiug  human 
pants  of  this 
rly  watching 
iscover  some 
ured-looking 
about,  as  I 
)n  spied  my 
h  the  fence, 
i    she    said, 

might  your 

swered. 
ters  child?" 
I  for  no  fur- 
heait,  asked 
Ma'am?" 
L't  dearie  I 


"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  I  May  I  come  and  play 
with  them  sometime  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course,  you  can  all  the  time  if 
you  like,  but  have  you  none  at  home  ?  " 

''  No,  I  am  the  only  one  and  its  so  lonesome." 

"  So  it  must  be,  poor  child.  I  think  its  a  cry- 
ing shame  for  folks  to  bring  one  desolate  little 
chick  into  the  world  and  keep  it  all  alone ;  but 
never  mind  my  Axy  and  Ahsy  shall  play  with 
you." 

What  funny  names  I  thought,  and  Ashy  was 
instantly  presented  to  my  mind  as  a  very  girm 
specimen  of  humanity,  whether  male  or  female  [ 
could  not  tell.  I  had  no  further  time  however 
just  then  to  reflect  on  the  nomenclature  of  Mrs. 
Dutton's  children,  as  it  was  time  for  lessons,  so  I 
said  good-morning  and  went  hastily  up  the  hill 
to  our  door. 


'.■s-.-js-—  -.  ^.}  ueii! — r^-Tc?.' 


/•    '« 


CHAPTER  II. 
Playtkllows. 

f  OU  may  go  and  play  an  hour  with  Mrs. 
Button's  children." 
What  welcome  words  these  were  as  .mother 
addressed  them  to  me,  at  the  close  of  study  hours, 
the  day  after  I  met  our  new  neighbor  at  the  fence. 
All  that  day  delightful  plans  had  been  mingling 
in  my  head,  with  the  Latin  and  French  verbs  I 
had  to  conjugate,  and  father  reproved  me  more 
sharply  for  my  inattention  than  he  had  ever  done 
before  for  months.    I  had  so  many  wonders  in 
field  and  forest  to  exhibit,  such  stores  of  treas- 
ures Marco  and  I  had  discovered  but  which  he 
«4 


ir  with  Mrs. 

e  as  .mother 
study  hours, 
at  the  fence, 
en  mingling 
mch  verbs  I 
^e^  me  more 
ad  ever  done 
wonders  in 
ores  of  treas- 
tut  which  he 


i'-^mm 


Playfellows. 


16 


could  not  help  me  to  admire.  I  longed  too  for  child- 
ish sympathy  in  my  griefs  as  well  as  pleasures. 

My  thoughts  were  busy  the  last  thing  at  night 
and  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  laying  plans 
for  the  amusement  of  my  new  playmates  and 
when  the  coveted  moment  came,  when  I  found 
myself  walking  slowly  down  the  lane  to  their 
home,  I  could  scarcely  realize  the  measure  of  my 
'satisfaction. 

When  I  came  in  sight  of  the  house  what  a 
spectacle  awaited  my  delighted  gaze  ;  a  swarm 
of  children  were  gathered  under  an  old  apple  tree, 
that  had  often  given  me  a  gloomy  sensation  but 
which  was  henceforth  to  be  remembered  with 
delight  for  the  friendliness  that  now  awaited  me 
beneath  its  shade. 

There  were  seven  children.  Could  I  believe 
my  own  arithmetic  as  I  stood  stiU  and  counted 
them? 

Yes  it  was  true  and  forgetting  my  usual  shy- 
ness, in  my  anxiety  to  discovor  Ashy  and  Azy  I 
stepped  quickly  forward. 


16 


One  Quiet  Life. 


Tho  largest  child,  a  pale,  gentlo  looking  boy 
about  twelve  years  old,  was  boldiiig  a  great  rol- 
licldng  buby,  which  seemed  determined  to  de- 
velop its  muscles  and  vocal  powers  to  their  ut- 
most cai)acity. 

When  tho  children  saw  me,  which  did  not 
iappen  until  I  stood  just  beside  them,  they 
looked  up  [)leasantly,  and  one  of  the  little  ones 
cried  out,  joyously : 

*'  Here  she  comes  I "  • 

1  instantly  felt  at  home,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
was  sitting  on  the  grass  \  th  Alexandrina  in  my 
arms.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  disencumber 
myself  of  such  a  load  of  infantile  humanity,  un- 
til A^hy,  whom  I  discovered  to  be  a  boy,  and 
the  eldest  of  the  family,  took  her  again. 

My  first  task  was  to  learn  the  names  of  my 
new  associates,  a  task,  not  easily  learned;  for 
their  father  being  of  an  aspiring  turn  of  mind, 
but  not  gifted  with  very  discriminating  taste, 
had  selected  the  longest  he  could  find  in  the  few 
booktt  that  comprised  his  scant  library. 


PlayfeUowa. 


17 


0  look! fig  boy 
iig  a  great  rol- 
rmined  to  de- 
rs  to  their  ut- 

'hich  did  not 
>  them,  they 
the  little  ones 


\  few  minutes 
iindrina  in  my 
>  disencumber 
luraanity,  un- 
le  a  boy,  and 
gain. 

names  of  my 
learned ;  for 
)urn  of  mind, 
inating  taste, 
nd  in  the  few 


Ashy,  I  found  to  be  an  abbreviation  of  Ahas- 
ucrus,  and  Axy,  of  Artaxerxos. 

Their  mother,  less  amb'*^iou8  than  her  husband 
abbreviated  each  of  the  high  sounding  appella- 
tions to  suit  her  own  taste,  but  Mr.  Dutton 
never  condescended  to  speak  any  but  the  full 
name. 

I  have  often  seen  a  smile  on  my  mother's  face, 
when,  through  the  quiet  air,  we  would  hear  his 
cracked  voice  calling  loudly  for  Artaxerxes  or 
Arthur  Wellington,  or  some  other  name  illustri- 
ous in  history. 

I  was  soon  so  absorbed  in  watching  their  merry 
pranks,  and  listening  to  their  happy  voices,  that 
I  forgot  all  about  taking  them  to  see  the  curiosi- 
ties I  had  been  planning  to  exhibit,  and  the  sun 
was  just  setting  when  Mrs.  Dutton  came  to  < 
the  children  to  their  tea.  During  the  time  I  hu^ 
been  there,  messengers  had  been  passing  to  and 
fro,  carrying  bread  and  molasses. 

"  What  wonderful  appetites  they  have,"  I  said 
to  Ashy. 


-f*  ^ 


II 


18 


One  Quiet  Life. 


"  There's  a  good  many  to  eat,"  lie  exi)lained. 

"  And  they  cut  a  good  deal  too,"  I  quietly  said 
to  myself. 

Mrs.  Dutton  gave  me  a  heorty  ipvitation  to  go 
in  and  join  with  them  at  their  repast,  but  I  sadly 
recollected  that  my  term  of  absence  had  long 
ago  expired,  so  I  could  only  regretfully  decline 
the  offered  hospitality.  As  I  glanced  wistfully 
into  the  bright  room  with  its  wide  fire-place,  and 
low  whitewashed  ceiling,  I  could  see  that  every- 
thing looked  clean  and  pleasant,  while  the  vision 
of  many  happy  hours  in  store  for  me  there  sent 
me  home  with  a  glad  heart. 

After  this  the  greater  part  of  each  day's  play 
hours  I  spent  with  the  Buttons  and  among  them 
all,  I  liked  Ashy  the  best.  Ho  was  more  like  a 
girl  in  the  gentleness  of  his  disposition  ;  and  yet 
he  had  all  a  boy's  love  of  adventure,  but  he 
never  led  us  into  danger  or  mischief. 


«  .M  •..••...*„  ♦*   ff-^ 


he  explained. 
,"  I  quietly  said 

ipvitfttion  to  go 
last,  but  I  sadly 
tence  had  long 
•etfuUy  decline 
inaed  wistfully 
3  fire-place,  and 
see  that  every- 
kvhile  the  vision 
r  me  there  sent 

each  day's  play 
nd  among  them 
;vas  more  like  a, 
sition ;  and  yet 
'euture,  but  he 
aief. 


CHAPTER  III. 

rOEESHADOWINGS. 

WO  pleasant  years  passed  away  thus ; 
they  would  seem  almost  perfectly  happy 
years  to  me  now,  but  for  the  gradual  failure  of 
my  father's  health. 

I  distinctly  remember  what  a  sad  day  it  was 
in  our  little  home  when  he  pioached  his  lasc  ser- 
mon. ' 

On  Saturday  afternoon,  mother  brushed  and 

laid  out  his  clothes  as  usual.    I  saw  the  large 

tears  dropping  on  the  shining  cloth,  which  she 

carefully  wiped  away  with  the  corner  of  her 

clean  white  apron ;  while  my  father  as  usual  was 

»9 


■■ 


f 


20  One  Quiet  Life. 

in  his  study,  coming  out  when  tlio  early  toa- 
boll  rang,  with  a  lace  i)ulor  ond  graver  than 
UHual. 

While  I  was  washing  the  tea  dishes,  they  went 
and  sat  by  the  parlor  fire.  The  late  September 
evenings  were  getting  chilly,  and  father  nearly 
always  required  a  fire.  I  did  not  know  then 
that  they  thought  he  must  die.  They  did  not 
tell  me ;  perhaps,  because  knowing  how  intensely 
I  loved  him,  they  may  have  feared  to  shock  me. 

When  I  came  in  from  the  dusky  kitchen,  I 
was  surprised  to  see  my  mother,  crouched  on  the 
rug  beside  my  father's  chair,  her  face  hidden  on 
his  knee  and  her  whole  frame  quivering  with  sup- 
pressed emotion.  They  did  not  hear  me  at  the 
door;  my  surprise  kept  me  silent.  I  mutely 
wondered  why  mother  should  seem  so  strangely 
troubled,  and  why  should  father  look  so  sad  ? 
He  spoke,  how  the  words  thrilled  me  : 

"  Meta,  my  beloved  Meta,  can't  you  think  it 
will  only  be  for  a  little  while  we  shall  be  separa- 
ted ?    Will  you  not  help  me  to  say  to  our  Heav- 


:..T*"-' 


Forethadowiny, 


21 


tlio  early  toa- 
l   graver  than 

hes,  they  wont 

ito  September 

father  nearly 

• 

ot  know  then 
They  did  not 
how  intensely 
I  to  shock  me. 
ky  kitchen,  I 
ouchedon  the 
ice  hidden  on 
ring  with  sup- 
ear  me  at  the 
t.     I  mutely 
1  so  strangely 
look  so  sad  ? 
ae  : 

you  think  it 
all  be  separa- 
to  our  Heav- 


enly Father,  who  has  given  us  to  each  other  for 
BO  many  years,  "  Thy  will  bo  done  ?  " 

"  Oh  Stephen  I  I  cannot  lose  you.  I  never 
told  you  how  my  whole  life  ^as  absorbed  in 
yours:  how  idolatrously  I  have  loved  you.  God 
is  punishing  me  for  it.  Ho  wants  uU  our  hearts, 
and  1  have  given  mine  almost  wholly  to  you." 

"  You  are  not  just  to  yourself  Meta.  I  have 
known  few  lives  purer  or  more  devoted  to  the 
service  of  our  Father  in  Heaven  than  yours,  and 
he  only  takes  me  a  little  before  you,  to  lead  you 
closer  to  himself." 

"  How  shall  I  live  when  I  see  you  lying  cold 
and  silent  in  your  coffin,  deaf  to  all  my  woe,  for- 
ever lost  to  me  on  earth?  How  can  I  endure 
the  thought  ?  " 

"  I  may  still  be  near  to  comfort  you,  Meta*.  I 
will  not  love  you  less  there,  but  I  believe  a  great 
deal  more."  ^  ' 

"  Ah  I  but  I  shall  not  see  you ;  I  shall  not 
even  know  if  y.>u  are  aware  of  my  sorrow.  You 
may  be  so  far  off  among  the  angels,  enjoying  the 
riches  of  Heaven's  glory  that  you  will  forget  all 


n\ 


i 


IK-^ 


22 


One  Quiet  Life. 


about  earthly  things,  scarcely  recognizing  me, 
perhaps,  when,  bye  and  bye  I  meet  you  among 
your  celestial  companions." 

"  Meta,  He  who  made  the  human  heart,  did 
not  give  to  it  this  deep,  underlying  affection  to 
last  only  through  this  life  ;  the  economy  of  his 
other  works  teaches  me  this.  Let  us  the  rather 
think  of  taking  up  our  shortly  sundered  lives 
there,  worshipping  and  loving  forever." 

For  a  while  there  was  silence  with  the  excep- 
tion of  my  mother's  half  suppressed  weeping. 
My  father's  face  as  I  got  a  glimpse  of  it,  where  I 
stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  door,  looked  so 
strangely  spiritual  that  I  shuddered  involunta- 
rily. 

Presentl}',  mother  spoke  again.  I  can  see  now, 
as  I  review  the  memories  of  childhood,  how  un- 
necessary her  remark ;  she,  who  had  never,  I  be- 
lieve, looked  unkindly  at  her  husband,  said, 
reaching  her  hand  out  blindly  towards  him  : 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  everything  I  have  done 
amiss  ?  " 

Her  voice  trembled.     I  saw  the  muscles  of 


30gniz.mg   me, 
jet  you  among 

aan  heart,  did 
ng  affection  to 
3onomy  of  his 
us  the  rather 
sundered  lives 
ver." 

ith  the  excep- 
ssed  weeping. 
!  of  it,  wliere  I 
lor,  looked  so 
red  involuuta- 

I  can  see  now, 
hood,  how  un- 
id  never,  I  be- 
lusband,  said, 
irds  him  : 
g  I  have  done 

e  muscles  of 


Foreshadowings. 


23 


my  father's  face  quiver,  with  an  uucontrollable 
tenderness  in  his  voice,  he  stcoped  down  and 
kissing  her,  said : 

"  My  own  wife,  I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  I 
have  received  from  you  a  devotion  that  has 
known  no  change." 

I  could  stay  no  longer ;  my  heart  was  burst- 
in<r :  a  moment  more  and  I  should  have  betrayed 
the  knowledge  but  just  discovered. 

Quietly  slipping  from  the  room,  I  went  out 
through  the  half-closed  outer  door,  and  darting 
across  the  meadow,  forgetting  my  childish  terror 
of  the  darkness  and  silence  of  the  forest,  I  rushed 
into  its  stillness,  and  threw  myself  down  on  a  bed 
of  moss,  where  on  bright  summer  days,  I  often 
lay  for  hours  watching  the  white  clouds  float 
across  the  sky,  while  I,  in  the  meantime,  built 
castles  reaching  almost  to  the  blue,  airy  dome,  of 
a  wonderful  future,  spent  with  my  father  and 
mother  in  a  beautiful  home  of  my  own  upbuild- 
ing, whence  poverty  and  care  were  to  be  forever 
banished.  f 


m 


One  Quiet  Life. 


•  My  eyes  were  not  turned  skyward  now,  but 
with  my  face  buried  in  tiie  moss,  I  lay  and 
and  moaned ;  my  heart  seemed  frozen  with  its 
new  strange  misery.  Dumbly  striving  with  raj 
pain,  I  wondered  if  God  could  love  me  as  they  said 
he  did,  and  yet  take  my  father.  He  could  not 
need  him  in  heaven  as  we  did  on  earth. 

Presently  the  thought  presented  itself,  might 
not  God  hear  and  answer  prayer  as  he  had  done 
in  the  olden  days. 

With  a  pang  I  recollected  that  of  late  I  had 
been  very  careless  about  praying.     I  wondered  if 
God  could  be  punishing  me  for  my  negligence. 
Now,  I  resolved  to  pray  every  hour.    Christ  had 
raised  the  dead,  surely  my  father  could  be  cured. 
I  knelt  by  the  moss  covered  mound,  and  asked 
as  earnestly,  I  believe,  as  if  I  had  actually  seen 
the  blessed  Saviour  who  had  healed  the  sick 
while  on  earth,  if  he  would  not  spare  my  father 
to  us  since  we  needed  him  so  much. 

Gradually  my  heart  felt  comforted.     I  be- 
lieved that  in  a  little  gsvhile  I  should  see  my  fa- 


im 


ard  now,  but 
»ss,  I  lay  and 
ozen  with  its 
ving  with  mj 
ae  as  the}'  said 
He  could  Hot 
arth. 

;  itself,  might 
he  had  done 

I 

of  late  I  had 
t  wondered  if 
negligence. 

Christ  had 
lid  be  cured. 
J,  and  asked 
ctually  seen 
ed  the  sick 
re  my  father 

ted.     I  be- 

[  see  my  fa- 


Foreshadomngg. 


25 


ther  well  again.  Alas  I  I  did  not  know  that 
God  often  deals  with  his  children  in  the  wisest 
manner  by  refusing  to  grant  their  petitions. 

I  soon  turned  my  steps  homeward,  washing  my 
tear  stained  face  in  the  brook.  I  went  in  si- 
lently and  glancing  through  the  open  door  I 
found  my  absence  had  not  been  observed.  I 
passed  into  the  kitchen  and  quietly  waited  the 
hour  for  prayers. 

When  I  entered  the  parlor  in  answer  to  my 
mother's  summons,  everything  seemed  as  usual, 
and,  but  for  the  increased  fervor  and  tenderness 
of  my  father's  prayer  I  might  have  yielded  my- 
self to  the  comforting  belief  that  I  was  mistaken 
in  my  fears. 

The  next  morning  father  prepared  as  usual  for 
the  labors  of  the  day,  while  I  assisted  mother  in 
her  domestic  duties,  watching  intently  for  some 
reference  to  the  scenes  of  the  previous,  evening 
but  in  vain. 

:  At  last,  I  began  to  wonder  if  I  might  not  in 
some  way  have  mistaken  their  meaning,  but,  and 
the  reflection  was  sadly  forced  upon  me,  if  so. 


mi 


I'  -w*!  ijuli  ■■iffju'j.yjgi -tjiPi. 


26 


One  Quiet  Ltfe. 


why  should  my  father  cease  preaching.  I  con- 
cluded to  settle  the  matter  by  asking  mother ;  so 
when  we  were  preparing  for  church,  I  slipped 
into  her  room  and  eagerly  whispered : 

"  Will  father  never  preach  again  ?  " 

For  an  instant  she  looked  startled,  and  then 
turned  so  pale,  I  was  afraid  she  was  going  to 
faint.  Sinking  into  a  chair,  she  leaned  her  head 
back  wearily  as  though  all  hope  liad  fled. 

I  ran  for  a  glass  of  water,  bitterly  repeuting 
my  thoughtlessness;  hoping  to  comfort  her,  I 
said : 

"Don't  he  anxious,  mother;  I  believe  father 
will  soon  get  well.  I  am  asking  God  to  cure 
him."  ,  V     , 

Such  a  pitiful  look  came  into  her  face  as  she 
sadly  replied. 

"None  but  God  can  cure  him.  We  can  only 
trust  in  him." 

"  Have  you  asked  him  yet,  mother  ?  " 

"A  thousand  times  my  child.  We  must  be- 
lieve that  what  he  wills  is  best." 

We   walked  to  church,  going  very    slowly 


Foreshadomngs. 


27 


clung.    I  con- 
ng  mother ;  so 
urch,  I  slipped 
■ed : 
1?" 

.led,  and  then 
was  going  to 
aned  her  head 
id  fled. 

(rly  repenting 
omfort  her,  I 

believe  father 
God  to  cure 

er  face  as  she 

We  can  only 

er?" 

"We  must  be- 
very    slowly 


through  the  quiet  street.  I  heard  the  crickets 
in  the  fields,  and  in  a  distant  cluster  of  bushes  ; 
a  quail  was  calling  for  rain. 

It  comes  to  me  so  plainly  now,  that  melan- 
choly walk  beneath  the  sombre  autumn  sky,  and 
that  mournful  service,  the  last  my  father  ever 
conducted.  •  His  own  eyes  moist  as  he  gazed  in 
the  tear  stained  faces  of  his  parishioners,  while  he 
took  leave  of  them,  thanking  them  for  their  kind- 
ness through  the  years  they  had  been  together, 
and  earnestly  desiring  that  they  might  all  meet 
in  Heaven. 

When  the  service  was  ended,  many  of  the  con- 
gregation came  to  speak  to  my  mother,  among 
them  Squire  Mounts,  of  whom,  I  generally  stood 
greatly  in  awe.  There  crept  a  warmer  feeling 
for  him,  about  my  heart,  when  I  saw  the  great 
tears  quivering  in  his  eyes  as  he  grasped  my 
mother's  hand. 

I  walked  home  with  lame  Sally,  who  spoke  so 
tenderly  of  father,  I  felt  that  she  at  least  believed 
there  was  little  more  of  earth  for  him.     It  was 


1-  -i 


2a 


One  Quiet  Life. 


very  unusual  for  her  to  ahovr  the  feminine  side 
of  her  nature,  and  I  knew  there  must  be  strong 
cause  for  it  when  she  did  so. 

At  dinner,  that  day,  father  said : 

"  I  did  not  think,  Meta,  that  our  friends  cared 
so  much  for  us.  You  see  we  can  behold  a  little 
of  the  silver  lining  even  in  this  cloud.  By  and 
by,  when  we  get  above  the  clouds,  we  shall  see 
nothing  but  their  brightness." 

Mother  made  no  reply.  I  think  it  would  have 
been  difficult  for  her  just  then  to  see  any  light  in 
the  midnight  skies  above  her. 


feminine  side 
lUst  be  strong 


friends  cared 
behold  a  little 
oud.  By  and 
I,  we  shall  see 

it  would  have 
e  any  light  in 


•Ml 


r 


'*^     V  CHAPTER  IV.   '      ' 

BEBKAVEIiENT. 

I OOKING  back  over  the  intervening  years 
I  find  that  the  bitterness,  the  bitter  sweet- 
ness of  that  time  has  not  faded  from  my  memory. 
Those  events  seem  to  have  burnt  themselves 
into  my  brain,  while  many  another  experience, 
that  seemed  at  the  time  of  more  than  passing  in- 
terest has  faded  almost  entirely  from  recollect- 
ion ;  or  appearing,  like  a  half  forgotten  dream 
that  coming,  only  gives  a  troubled  sensation. 
My  father  still  continued  to  give  me  lessons,  but 
Ashy  had  to  cease  coming,  we  had  been  study- 
ing together  and  father  was  greatly  pleased  with 

the  progress  he  was  making.    It  was  his  desire 

29 


PI 


.;.;( 


MM 


tm- 


■'■U-HIJWiWWW 


**  ^ 


80 


One  Quiet  Life. 


that  I  should  repeat  to  Ashy  the  lessons  he  had 
taught  me. 

"It  will  benefit  you,"  he  said  to  me,  "  and  you 
will  also  be  doing  good,  and  I  wish  you  to  learn 
that  for  y^ur  life  work,  beside,  we  never  try  to 
help  others  without  receiving  a  larger  recom- 
pense ourselves." 

How  much  I  enjoyed  those  long  quiet  hours 
in  father's  study;  I  tried  to  remember  every 
word,  to  practice  every  precept.  He  rarely 
spoke  to  me  of  dying,  I  could  not  hide  my  emo- 
tion when  he  did  so.  He  would  merely  say: 
"When  I  am  gone  you  will  do  this  Dora  or 
study  such  a  branch,  giving  me  direction  for 
conduct  or  lesson.  I  could  see  that  the  affec- 
tion he  cherished  for  us  grew  more  intense  as  the 
hour  of  separation  drew  near.  Mother  said  to 
him  one  day  just  as  I  was  entering  the  room : 

"  You  are  making  it  harder  every  hour  for  me 
to  give  you  up.  You  may  think  me  rebellious 
but  I  cannot  help  asking  that  we  may  not  be 
long  separated." 


lessons  he  had 

0  me,  "  aud  you 
sh  you  to  learn 
ve  never  try  to 
>  larger  recom- 

ng  quiet  hours 
tmember  every 
t.  He  rarely 
t  hide  my  emo- 
d  merely  say: 
3  this  Dora  or 
9  direction  for 
that  the  affec- 
i  intense  as  the 
Mother  said  to 
^  the  room : 
iry  hour  for  me 
:  me  rebellious 
ve  may  not  be 


Bereavemtnt, 


81 


"  I  beli&ve  you  will  soon  follow  me,  Meta." 

I  could  endure  this  no  longer ;  bui'sting  into 
tears  I  asked : 

"  Will  you  not  pray  that  I  may  go  too  ?  I 
cannot  live  quite  alone  in  this  world  without 
either  father  or  mother." 

"  In  His  own  good  time  my  daughter  if  you 
love  and  obey  God  he  will  bring  you  to  him- 
self." 

"Oh,  father  1  You  do  not  love  me  or  you 
would  not  wish  to  leave  me  alone,  and  desolate, 
in  this  wide  world." 

"  I  love  you  Dora  as  perhaps  few  children  are 
loved,  but  I  commit  you  to  the  care  of  One,  who 
loves  you  better  even  than  I  have  ever  loved  my 
only  child,  and  who  alone  knows  the  struggle  it 
has  been  for  me  to  give  you  up." 

Stooping  down  he  kissed  my  tear-stained  face 
and  with  his  arms  about  me  feebly  clasped  me 
to  the  heart  that  yearned  so  pityingly  over  my 
sorrow.  Presently  kneeling  beside  him  with  my 
head  on  his  knee,  I  lay  for  a  long  time  listening, 


II 


ti" 


-•f^  -S 


82 


One  Quiet  Life. 


while  they  talked,  only  interrupting  to  ^ay  that 
I  had  heard  their  first  conversation  on  that  even- 
ing 80  many  weeks  ago.  ;  » .  ;  ».  > 
>  "  My  poor  child,  how  bravely  you  have  borne 
your  griefs,  working  90  nobly  to  save  us  trouble 
and  yet  trying  to  hide  your  anxiety." 

He  spoke  so   tenderly,  all  the  while  softly 
stroking  my  bowed  head,  that  1  thought  my 
heart  would  break  with  suppressed  emotion,  but 
I  was  determined  never  again  to  distress  my 
father  with  my  grief  if  I  could  restrain  my  feel- 
ings.   In  my  childish  way,  I  determined  the 
barn  was  just  as  good  a  place  as  any  to  cry  in ; 
but  when  I  got  alone  I  found  the  desire  to  do  so 
was  not  so  great  as,  when  I  sat  looking  at  my 
father's  pale  face,  and  listening  to  the  terrible 
cough. 

I  had  another  cause  for  anxiety ;  every  day  I 
discovered  some  new  retrenchment  in  our  little 
household.  We  never  bought  meat  now,  and  I 
could  not  but  notice  that  mother  partook  spar- 
ioglj.  if  at  all,  of  the  occasional  presents  of  meat 


n 


ng  to  riay  that 
I  on  that  ovon- 

3U  have  borne 
avo  us  trouble 
y." 

I  while  softly 
[  thought  my 
1  emotion,  but 
0  distress  my 
train  my  feel- 
itermined  the 
iny  to  cry  in ; 
[esire  to  do  so 
)oking  at  my 
)  the  terrible 

;  every  day  I 
t  in  our  little 
it  now,  and  I 
partook  spar- 
3ents  of  meat 


JBereavement. 


83 


sent  from  a  friendly  farmer.  Whether  father 
noticed  it  or  not  I  could  not  tell  but  I  thought 
his  fondness  for  favorite  dishes  had  strangely 
changed.  I  frequently  paid  short  visits  to  the 
more  generous  of  our  neighbors,  hoping  to  get 
something  nice  to  take  home  to  my  father;  I 
was  too  proud  even  to  hint  for  anything,  but  the 
gladness  I  felt  whenever  a  present  was  given 
must  have  shown  plainly  without  words. 

The  people  were  kind,  but  food  and  clothing 
for  three  cost  a  good  deal,  and  my  father  had 
little  store  of  wealth  laid  by  for  the  rainy  day. 
I  have  learned  since  that  his  unceasing  benevo- 
lence was  the  cause.  1  .  >  •: 

I  cannot  think  even  now,  after  the  lapse  of  so 
many  years,  without  a  feeling  of  sadness,  of  the 
grief  it  must  have  been  to  him,  when  thinking 
of  leaving  us  unprovided  for.  I  used  to  sit  near 
the  door  at  prayer  time  that  I  might  escape  un- 
noticed to  my  room  to  bathe  my  swollen  face. 
His  prayers  for  resignation  that  he  might  say, 
•'  Thy  will  be  done,"  for  the  widows  and  father- 


ii 


tmr" 


One  Quiet  Life. 


I0H8  and  those  dm  wing  near  to  death  neatly 
broke  my  heart.  Tliero  was  soinotimes  a  sup- 
pressed agony  in  hiy  voice  while  urging  God's 
promises  that  inuafc  not  fail.  I  am  glad  now 
when  I  think  how  suddenly  and  almost  painfully 
the  summons  came.  I  had  taken  two  lessons 
that  day,  I  was  in  the  habit  of  studying  my  les- 
Bons  so  perfectly  that  father  need  have  but  little 
trouble  in  teaching  mo.  This  day  ho  seemed 
unusually  well  i)leaaed  with  my  recitation  and 
whoa  he  ditjmissed  me  with  the  accustomed  Iclss, 
that  usually  ended  my  school  duties  for  the  day, 
he  said : 

"  You  will  make  a  scholar  some  day,  Dora  ;  I 
hope  you  will  continue  your  studies  when  I  am 
gone,  Remember,  ♦  Where  there's  a  will  there's 
a  way.' " 

I  gave  the  desired -promise  that  I  would  do  so, 
or  at  least  make  the  endeavor,  and  then  went 
about  my  honsehold  duties  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  usual.  Mother  had  gradually  resigned 
these  to  my  hands,  as  father  desired  to  have  her 


death  nearly 
otimcH  a  Hiip- 

urging  God's 
am  glad  now 
most  painfully 
n  two  lessons 
dying  my  les- 
liavo  but  little 
ay  ho  eecmed 
recitation  and 
mstomed  Iciijs, 
)8  for  tho  day, 

day,  Dora ;  I 
es  Avhen  I  am 
a  will  there's 

would  do  so, 
d  then  went 
lighter  heart 
iilly  resigned 
1  to  have  her 


Bereavement.  9i 

near  him,  while  I  was  glad  in  any  way  to  gratify 
his  patient  und  few  requests.  Towards  evening 
when  my  tasks  for  the  day  were  all  accomplished 
I  took  my  seat  beaido  him  on  tho  low  footstool 
that  had  been  my  favorite  aeut  ever  since  I  could 
recollect. 

That  evening's  conversation  seems  to  have 
been  photographed  upon  my  brain.  Father 
talked  to  us  about  Heaven  and  tho  happy  time 
when  wo  should  bo  a  family  complete  there  and 
how,  if  permitted,  ho  would  come  to  us  on  earth 
when  our  hearts  were  the  sorest,  bringing  com- 
forting thoughts ;  that  he  too  would  v/atch  about 
our  pathway,  and  when  the  time  camn  for  us  to 
go  home  to  God  he  would  come  to  conduct  us 
thither;  and  thus  continuing  to  talk  just  as  he 
used  to  do  long  ago.  I  heard  mother  softly 
weeping ;  my  overburdened  heart  found  little 
relief  from  tears  that  night.  My  father's  voice 
sounded  so  like  what  I  imagined  the  angels 
speech  might  be,  that  my  heart  stood  still  with 
the  sudden  fear  that  ho  wa3  very  soon  to  leave 


I 


80  One  Quiet  Life. 

us.     A  moment's  silence  ensued  and  then  be 
said,  hurriedly : 

"Will  you  light  the  lamp  Dora,  it  is  so 
dark?" 

I  arose  quickly  to  get  the  light,  although  the 
room  was  aglow  with  the  sunset.  Returning  to 
the  room  I  found  my  muther  kneeling  beside  my 
father's  chair  and  gazing  imploringly  into  his 
white,  pinched  face,  while  she  chafed  his  cold 
hands,  holding  them  to  her  breast  to  bring  back 
the  warmth  that  would  never  more  return. 

"  Run  quickly  for  Mrs.  Button,"  my  mother 
hurriedly  exclaimed. 

Father  roused  a  little  and  opening  his  eyes 
said  feebly: 

"  Kiss  me  Dorothy,  try  to  be  good  and  love 
your  mother."  , 

I  went  to  his  side  and  as  I  kissed  him  his  lips 
moved  and  I  caught  the  sound  of  a  faintly  mur- 
mured "  Good  by."    ^ 

In  a  few  minutes  I  returned  bringing  Mrs. 
Dutton;  we  found,  mother  still  kneeling.      I 


'*=3ff3=-iillifrii&V£ 


-^     ^^bSfef    a,J>-a   J. 


e. 


led  and  then  be 

3  Dora,  it  is  so 

ght,  although  the 
it.  Returning  to 
leeliug  beside  my 
loringlj'  into  his 
chafed  his  cold 
ast  to  bring  back 
lore  return, 
ton,"  my  mother 

)pening  his  eyes 

e  good  and  lovo 

ssed  him  his  lips 
of  a  faintly  mur- 

1  bringing  Mrs. 
ill  kneeling.      I 


ir-j.?sLJn4*,  4; 


Bereavement. 


m 


think  father  had  spoken  to  her  again  and  taken 
the  last,  long  adieu  of  the  one  whom  he  loved  so 
tenderly.  He  breathed  once  or  twice  aft(jr  I 
went  in,  and  then  the  vital  spark  went  out. 
When  mother  saw  that  he  was  gone  she  rose,  I 
think  to  leave  the  room,  but  fell  fainting  to  the 
floor.  Mrs.  Dutton  laid  her  on  her  bed  while  I 
staid  alone  with  father.  Ashy  had  been  dis- 
patched to  the  village  for  assistance,  and  in  a 
little  while,  Mr.  Wilton,  the  new  minister  who 
had  succeeded  father,  came  in  with  Squii'e 
Mounts,  and  in  a  short  time  the  room  was  full 
of  sympathizing  friends. 

I  could  not  stay  with  my  father  when  so  many 
strange  hands  were  about  him,  so,  seeming  to  be 
needed  by  no  one,  and  wishing  to  be  alone  with 
my  misery,  I  slipped  quietly  down  through  the 
meadow,  over  the  damp,  partly  frozen  ground  to 
the  sheltering  trees.  Marco  followed  slowly 
behind,  stopping,  now  and  then,  to  utter  a  dis- 
mal howl:  he  was  growing  old  now;  soon,  I 
thought,  I  shall  be  all  alone,  not  even  my  dog 


tmmm 


mtm 


88 


One  Quiet  Life. 


left  to  comfort  and  protect  me.    I  was  stunned 
with  grief,  and  walked  as  in  a  dream.     I  went 
out  into  the  woods  not  heeding  in  what  direct- 
ion.    I  had  never  ventured   very  far  into  the 
forest's  depths  alone  before,  but  this  niglit  I 
thought   only  of   getting  far    away  from  my 
trouble,  and  proceeding  with  tliis  solo  object  in 
view  heeded  nothing  about  me  till  it  grew  dark 
and  the  night  air  felt  chilly  about  my  poorly 
protected  body;  I  sat  down  to  rest  on  an  old  log 
that  lay  across  my  path  and  gathering  my  scanty 
garments  about  me  fell  asleep". 

How  long  I  slept  I  did  not  know  but  the 
moon  was  shinning  through  the  trees  when  I 
awoke  and  I  was  so  benumbed  with  the  cold  I 
could  scarcely  move.  Marco  was  asleep  ut  my 
feet,  but  was  instantly  alert  when  I  began  to  be- 
stir myself.  I  was  bewildered  and  could  scarcely 
realize  where  I  was,  and,  beside,  I  felt  faint  with 
hunger,  for  I  had  taken  nothing  since  dinner,  and 
it  was  now  nearly  midnight. 
My  first  thought  wad  to  return  home,  but 


■J — 


I  was  stunned 
dream.     I  went 
:  in  what  direct- 
ly far  into  the 
ut  this  night  I 
away  from  njy 
is  solo  object  in 
iill  it  grew  dark 
•out   my  poorly 
st  on  an  old  lojr 
Jring  my  scanty 

know  but  the 
>  trees  when  I 
nth  the  cold  I 
s  asleep  ut  my 
1 1  began  to  be- 
l  could  scarcely 

felt  faint  with 
nco  dinner,  and 

irn  home,  but 


Bereavement. 


89 


which  way  was  I  to  go  ?  Marco  generally  fol- 
lowed ray  steps  and  did  not  often  lead  me,  or  I 
should  have  known  my  safest  plan  would  be  to 
resign  myself  to  his- guidance.  I  feared  too  the 
darkness  and  silence  of  woods;  the  moon  cast 
such  strange  shadows  all  around  me,  and,  child- 
ish as  it  may  seem,  the  thought  of  my  dear,  dead 
father  teriilied  me.  J  recollected  the  promise 
he  made,  oul}-  a  few  hnuis  before,  to  come  to  us 
in  trouble  ;  what  if  he  should  come  now  with 
that  ghastly  look  I  last  saw  on  Ids  face !  I 
clung  to  the  dog,  who  seemed  to  realize  that  I 
looked  to  him  for  protection,  and  passively  fol- 
lowing him,  after  a  long  weary  walk,  he  brought 
me  to  the  edge  of  the  thicket.  Before  reaching 
home  I  was  greatly  alaimed  at  hearing  men 
shouting,  and  when  wu  came  to  the  clearing  I 
was  astonished  to  see  people  passing  in  every 
direction  about  our  place,  with  lanterns  and 
torches ;  it  was  scarcely  necessary,  I  thought,  to 
look  for  anything  with  lights  when "  the  moon 
was  shining  so  brightly ;   it  did  not  occiirr  to  me 


ki — 


40 


One  Quiet  Life. 


just  then  that  they  might  be  searching  in  the 
well  and  about  the  brook  for  me ;  neither  did  I 
wonder  if  my  mother  had  discovered  my  absence, 
and  was  enduring  on  my  account  an  added  pang 
of  misery,  to  the  already  accumulated  amount 
of  suffering  her  crushed  heart  was  struggling  be- 
neath. 

At  first  I  could  scarcely  comprehend  why  such 
glad,  thrilling  shouts  went  up  towards  the  mid- 
night stars  from  the  assembled  crowds  of  men,  or 
why  the  women  sobbed  so  frantically,  as  Mr. 
Wilton  led  me  wonderingly  along  to  where  my 
mother  was  standing  near  my  father's  out- 
stretched form  in  the  long  low  parlor. 


rching  in  the 
neither  did  I 
I  my  absence, 
n  added  pang 
lated  amount 
truggling  be- 

3nd  why  such 
ards  the  mid- 
'ds  of  men,  or 
cally,  as  Mr. 
to  where  my 
father's  out- 
3r. 


■•*^'."tV-  "-'■■■''WfM 


<-     '^VSVff; 


CHAPTER  V. 


STUDY. 


?'!!^FTER  a  few  months  mother  exhibited  a 
little  of  her  former  vivacity.  Now  and 
then  she  would  smile,  in  a  half  absent  way,  as  if 
the  smile  existed  only  in  her  face,  and  her  heart 
was  still  dead  to  happiness.  She  tried  to  inter- 
est herself  in  plans  for  the  future,  but  it  must 
have  been  evident  to  every  one  but  myself  that 
her  stay  on  earth  was  short. 

After  the  painful  discovery  of  our  straitened 
circumstances,  made  by  our  friends  on  the  night 
my  father  died,  our  larder  was  kept  well  sup- 
plied ;  so  much  so  that  we  often  had  something 

41 


'  •««if".y.MiWE"V"'""''lW^-^" 


42 


One  Quiet  Life. 


I 


to  spare  for  lamo  Sally,  and  Mrs.  Button's  in- 
creasing brood  of  children. 

I  took  up  my  lessons  again  with  mother  for 
teacher,  as  she  would  not  in  her  loneliness  per- 
mit me  to  attend  the  public  school.  Mr.  Wilton 
gave  me  lessons  in  Latin  and  Geometry.  I  had 
in  these  advanced  beyond  my  mother's  knowl- 
edge. 

I  soon  came  to  love  the  hour  for  recitation  in 
his  pleasant  study.  The  housekeeper  kept 
everything  so  beautifully  neat ;  while  the  hand- 
some pictures  and  rich  furniture  of  the  rooms 
gave  to  them  an  air  of  comfort  and  elegance,  to 
which  our  plain  surroundings  were  unaccus- 
tomed. 

He  was  rich  and  could  afford  such  luxurious 
upholstery,  independently  of  his  parish. 

Sometimes,  after  I  had  finished  ray  recitations, 
he  would  invite  me  into  the  parlor,  where  a 
grand  piano  stood,  invitingly  waiting  for  the 
master's  touch  upon  the  keys.  I  believe  I  en- 
joyed his  performances  fully  as  much  as  the  sweet 


5  a  Ki?". '.  ■ 


iT':t.3;.;,'^«s>*Ki'  -"*■: 


^JiL 


Dutton's  in- 

th  mother  for 
neliness  per- 
Mr.  Wilton 
etry.  I  had 
her's  knowl- 

recitation  in 
keeper  kept 
ile  the  hand- 
f  the  rooms 
elegance,  to 
(re  unaccus- 

sh  luxurious 
ish. 

Y  recitations, 
>r,  where  a 
ing  for  the 
elieve  I  en- 
as  the  sweet 


Studtf.  ^ 

low  strains  my  mother  used  to  draw  from  hpr 
guitar  when  I  was  a  little  child. 

I  must  have  been  a  flattering  auditor,  for  I  sel- 
dom heard  him  without  weeping.  This  musical 
treat  was  soon  the  one,  great  joy  of  my  life,  ap- 
pearing amid  the  sad  scenes  of  my  daily  lot  like 
a  stray  gleam  of  sunshine  from  some  other  world. 
One  day,  happening  to  turn  about  abruptly,  and 
discovering  my  emotion,  he  said,  rising  quickly : 

«  Don't  you  like  music,  Dora? " 

«  Oh,  yes ;  it's  the  greatest  joy  of  my  life  to 
hear  you  play." 

"  Would  you  like  to  learn  ?  " 

I  could  not  say  no,  and  I  was  ashamed  to  say 
yes ;  my  indebtedness  to  him  was  already  so 

great. 

"  Silence  gives  consent,"  he  said.    "  Suppose 

you  take  a  lesson  now  ?  " 

"I  shall  never  be  able  to  pay  you,  Mr.  Wil- 
ton." 

"  Don't  you  know,  Dora,  there  are  some  things 
we  do  in  this  world  that  God  pays  us  for?    I 


Mb- 


-  ■^""'•-m-y"". 


iSsilii 


mUh 


u 


One  Quiet  Life. 


am  beginning  to  find  they  are  my  most  profitable 
investment." 

**  Then  I  hope  God  will  pay  you  for  your  kind- 
ness to  me.  Maybe  father  will  thank  you  when 
he  meets  you  in  Heaven." 

I  looked  up  earnestly  in  his  face,  and  must 
have  revealed  to  him  the  gratitude  my  heart  felt, 
for  he  smiled  gently,  and  I  saw  tears  in  his  eyes. 

•'  Will  you  come  now  and  take  your  first  les- 
son ?"  he  asked. 

I  did  not  reply,  but  went  immediately  to  the 
instrument.  How  my  fingers  tingled  as  they 
touched  the  white  keys  I 

They  say  that  genius  is  sometimes  transmitted, 
and  if  so  a  faint  breath  of  that  rare  endowment 
may  have  descended  to  me,  from  an  ancestor 
long  since  dead,  who  was  a  celebrated  composer. 
Perhaps  a  better  endowment  had  fallen  to  me  in 
an  untiring  perseverance.  Whichsoever  it  was, 
I  soon  gratified  my  teacher  with  my  readiness  to 
comprehond  the  lessons  he  gave,  and  with  my 
diligent  practice  of  them. 


■^SgSsJ- 


Study. 


4ft 


>t  profitable 

your  kind- 
c  you  when 

,  and  must 
7  heart  felt, 
in  his  eyes, 
ur  first  les- 

itel}'  to  the 
ed  as  they 

ransmitted, 
jndowment 
in  ancestor 
I  composer, 
m  to  me  in 
5ver  it  was, 
eadiness  to 
id  with  my 


Mr.  Wilton  allowed  me  the  use  of  his  piano 
for  practicing  as  many  hours  as  I  wished  every 
day,  and  I  soon  availed  myself  largely  of  his  per- 
mission, to  the  no  small  annoyance  of  his  house- 
keeper, Mrs.  Green,  as  1  accidentally  discovered 
one  day. 

Mr.  Wilton  said,  laughingly,  one  evening  after 
my  lesson  was  ended : 

"  Mra.  Green  wishes  she  was  deaf,  or  the  piano 
broken,  such  constant  clatter  gives  her  noises  in 
her  head." 

"  No  wonder,"  I  quietly  thought,  "  that  she 
has  noises."  When  Mr.  Wilton  was  out  of  hear- 
ring  I  often  attempted  difficult  music,  and  the 
sounds  produced  were,  doubtless,  often  unearthly. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  practice  less,"  I  said 
anxiously. 

"  1  had  rather  you  would  practice  more  instead 
of  less.  I  am  expecting  to  see  you  an  accom- 
plished pianist,  some  day,  my  little  girl." 

How  my  cheeks  flamed  with  pleasure  I  I  was 
not  so  small  though  that  he  should  call  me  "  lit- 


vmatmmtitC" 


46 


One  Quiet  Life. 


lie  gill "  any  longer.  I  felt  very  largo  and  wom- 
anly, now  that  I  hud  reached  my  sixteenth  year  ; 
and,  beside,  mother  depended  so  much  on  mo. 
She  had  resigned  all  charge  of  our  little  estab- 
lishment into  my  hands,  permitting  mo  to  mako 
the  purchases  which  were  certainly  not  very  ex- 
tensive. What  planning  and  thinking  I  used  to 
expend  on  every  sixpence  that  came  into  my 
possession  I 

Mrs.  Mounts  bought  bits  of  fancy  work  that  I 
had  been  learning  how  to  manufacture,  and  many 
a  night,  long  after  mother  was  sleeping,  my  fin- 
gers were  busy  fashioning  some  article  to  adorn 
her  rooms  or  peraou.  She  paid  me  handsomely, 
recommending  my  work  to  other  ladies  also. 
But  the  greatest  delight  I  found  in  my  newly 
acquired  art  of  money-making  was  reserved  for 
one  day  when  Mr.  Wilton  asked  mo  for  t»me 
lace  for  his  mother  and  sisters,  after  ho  found  I 
was  doing  such  work.  I  faithfully  performed 
the  allotted  quantity,  sitting  up  late  and  rising 
early  to  get  it  quickly  completed. 


Studi/. 


47 


3 and  worn- 
euthyear ; 
ch  oa  mo. 
ittlo  estub- 
to  to  luako 
»t  very  cx- 
;  I  used  to 
3  into  my 

ork  that  I 
and  many 
jg,  my  fin- 
Ic  to  aduru 
indsomely, 
idles  also, 
my  newly 
served  for 
for  tK)mo 
le  found  I 
performed 
and  rising 


What  a  happy  duy  it  was,  when,  witli  the 
package  iu  which  it  waa  neatly  folded  lying 
safely  iu  my  pocket,  I  went  to  take  my  lessou ! 
Now  I  could  make  some  return,  very  small  in- 
deed, but  it  would  be  sufficient  to  show  I  was 
not  forgetful  of  the  weary  hours  devoted  to  mo 
by  my  kind  teacher. 

After  the  lesson  had  been  got  through  with 
but  indifferently,  —  I  was  too  muoh  occupied 
with  the  intended  offering  in  my  pocket  to  play 
well,  —  I  put  the  parcel  in  his  hand,  quite  for- 
getting the  pretty  speech  I  had  learned  by  heart, 
but,  instead,  saying  only  : 

"  Will  you  p^'^ase  accept  this  piece  of  work  for 
your  friends  ?  " 

"  What  is  it,  Dora,  the  fancy  work  I  spoke 
about?" 

I  said  *'  Yes,"  and  started  immediately  for  the 
door. 

"  You  must  not  go  yet,"  he  said.  "  I  am  ever 
so  much  indebted  for  this  beautiful  work,"  and 
he  held  it  up  admiringly.    . 


48 


One  Quiet  Life. 


1 


I 


"  I  don't  want  any  money.  Please  let  nio  do 
something  for  you."  I  burst  into  tears.  I  did 
not  see  his  face,  but  his  voice  sounded  strangely 
tender,  as  ho  said : 

"  Very  well,  Dora ;  only  I  wish  it  was  some- 
thing I  could  keep  myself.  I  should  treasure  it 
carefully." 

How  glad  and  proud  I  felt,  ast  I  walked  home 
in  the  bright  sunshine  ;  but  after  all,  it  was  such 
a  little  thing  to  be  glad  and  proud  for.  I  was 
ashamed  of  my  foolishness  when  I  thought  over 
the  incident. 

"  I  see  I  have  only  a  child's  heart  if  I  avi  fif- 
teen," I  said  sadly  to  myself.  "  I  wonder  if  I 
shall  ever  be  a  real  woman." 

A  few  days  after,  as  I  went  down-stairs  in  the 
early  morning  and  opened  the  outer  door,  I  dis- 
covered two  large  boxes  of  provisions  setting  in 
the  porch,  and  beside  them  a  parcel  containing  a 
complete  outfit  for  myself  and  mother ;  such 
garments  as  I  had  never  been  the  happy  pos- 
sessor of  before.    I  soon  awoke  mother,  I  could 


•vv«!fmMM^mijm.4iimkdii?m.^'£f.--,sm;i!^^M^ 


r-'w* 


Study. 


49 


iHe  let  mo  do 

tears.   I  diil 

led  strangely 

it  was  some- 
id  treasure  it 

walked  home 
1,  it  was  such 
1  for.  I  was 
thought  over 

t  if  I  am  fif- 
wonder  if  I 

i-stairs  in  the 
r  door,  I  dis- 
}ns  setting  in 

containing  a 
lothcr ;   such 

happy  pos- 
)ther,  I  could 


not  keep  such  a  delightful  surprise  to  myself. 
When  she  camo  and  saw  the  abundant  array  of 
good  things,  she  said  gently  : 

♦'  We  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Wilton  for  these. 
May  the  Lord  bless  him,  for  I  can  never  repay 
his  kindness." 

All  my  joy  was  quenched;  her  words  only 
aroused  an  angry  pride  within  my  breast.  Could 
I  not  make  even  a  slight  return  for  all  I  had 
received,  without  being  again  recompensed  a 
hundred  fold  ? 

I  allowed  mother  to  put  the  things  away  ;  in 
my  wicked  pride  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
touch  them.  How  my  heart  has  ached  since  then 
as  I  have  thought  how  my  ill  nature  must  have 
pained  her  grateful  heaKt  I 

But  my  wickedness  did  not  stop  here.  I  told 
a  lie  to  excuse  myself  from  taking  my  lesson  that 
day,  the  first  I  had  missed.  I  complained  of 
headache ;  it  was  only  my  heart  that  was  aching. 
I  sent  Clementina  Dutton  with  a  message  to  Mr. 
Wilton,  that  he  need  not  expect  me ;  I  did  not 


:;' 


"^yt^y 


- '  wtivw'ti  'ii'r^ifi'Tijy!^''!)!^"^''''??^'^''^ 


•^     0 


60 


One  Quiet  Life. 


wish  to  waste  his  time  even  if  my  heart  was 
bursting  vviiii  reproach  towards  him.       j 

In  order  to  drive  away  the  wretched  feeling 
embittering  every  moment  of  that  bright  sunny 
day,  — for  it  was  a  rarely  beautiful  day,  —  I  re- 
solved to  get  Mrs.  Button  to  bring  her  work  and 
the  baby,  and  sit  with  mother,  while  I  went  to 
put  some  flowers  on  father's  grave.  It  was  a 
long  wJk,  and  I  could  go  but  seldom. 

*'  Are  you  well  enough,  my  child  ?  "  my  mother 
asked.  She  looked  searchingly  at  me,  aud  I  felt 
my  face  flush  hot  beneath  her  gaze. 

"  I  am  not  sick,  mother ;  it  will  do  me  good  to 
go."  - 

"  You  may  go,  but  do  not  stay  late  ;  I  am  so 
lonely  when  you  are  away." 

I  went  up  to  her  and,  kissing  her,  whispered 
softly:     '  ' 

"  Will  you  forgive  me,  mother?  " 

"  Yes,  Dora.  At  your  age  1  might  have  felt 
OS  you  do."  • 


m 


em 


ly  heart  was 
1.  :..  ;  :, 
tched  feeling 
bright  sunny- 
day,  —  I  re- 
ler  work  and 
ile  I  went  to 
re.    It  was  a 


' "  my  mother 
le,  aud  I  felt 

0  me  good  to 

ite ;  I  am  so 

r,  whispered 

;ht  have  felt 


J. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

CONVBESION.      - 

HAT  afternoon  was  the  beginning  of  a 
new  era  in  my  experience.  There  was 
a  quiet  road,  with  very  rarely  a  traveler,  that 
led  to  my  father's  grave.  The  sun  was  shiniuj; 
hot  and  oppressive  when  I  started.  Mother 
came  with  me  to  the  gate  ;  there  ^as  a  wistful 
look  in  her  face,  I  know  she  longed  to  accom- 
pany me. 

I  stood  a  few  minutes  glancing  over  the  sur- 
rounding landscape.  Our  house  was  on  a  hill 
that  commanded  a  fine  view  of  all  the  country 
side.     The  adjoining  village   could  be   plainly 

seen,  its  roofs  glittering  in  the   noontide  sun- 
Si 


•^ 


52 


One  Quiet  Life. 


f  hine ;  one  of  the  most  plainly  visible  among  thorn 
being  that  of  the  beautiful  new  church,  conse- 
crated only  a  few  Sundays  before.  It  stood 
where  the  pld  one  had  been  and  was  surrounded 
by  great  trees  that  had  looked  down  on  several 
generations  as  they  came  up  seeking  the  way 
to  "  Heaven's  great  Cathedral." 

While  I  gazed,  a  hundred  memories  came 
trooping  through  my  brain.  Recollections  of 
childhood,  when  with  my  hand  in  father's  I  went 
to  the  long  services  which  were  so  tiresome  in 
those  childish  days,  and  to  the  pleasanter  Sab- 
bath-school, in  which  he  took  so  much-  interest. 
My  father's  feet  would  never  press  the  well- 
worn  path  again,  and  soon,  too,  my  own  steps 
might  be  turned  far  away  from  the  scenes  of  aiy 
childhood. 

These  and  similar  thoights  brought  tears  of 
deep  sorrow  into  my  eyes,  till  for  dimness  I  could 
scarcely  distinguish  the  fine  house  on  the  hill, 
where  Squire  Mounts  and  his  fashionable  family 
lived,  of  whom  I  was  sometimes  a  little  envious, 


^^i 


Converston. 


68 


ible  among  thorn 
church,  conse- 
bre.  It  stood 
ivas  surrounded 
own  on  several 
eking  the  way 

lemorlcs  came 
ecoUections  of 
father's  I  went 
so  tiresome  iq 
leasanter  Sab- 
much-  interest, 
ress  the  well- 
my  own  steps 
B  scenes  of  aiy 

)ught  tears  of 
imness  I  could 
3  on  the  hill, 
ionable  family 
.  little  envious, 


II 


or  the  parsonage,  where  Mrs.  Green  was  now 
preparing  Mr.  Wilton's  dinner. 

Away  beyond  the  little  town,  like  a  silver 
thread,  I  saw  the  river  widening :  along  whose 
banks  father  and  I  had  walked  n\  the  pleasant 
summer  days  of  long  ago.  Would  I  ever  again 
experience  happy  days  like  those  ?  Great  fleecy 
clouds  were  piling  up  iu  the  sky ;  such  clouds  I ' 
used  to  watch  with  delight,  as  I  lay  under  the 
trees ;  they  only  seemed  unchanged,  and  yet  they 
were  forever  changing. 

Presently  I  started  along  the  shady  lane.  In 
places  as  I  passed  the  trees  arched  overhead,  and 
the  way  was  so  unfrequented  the  grass  grew 
quite  across  it.  With  the  basket  on  my  arm, 
containing  the  flowers  I  was  taking  to  strew  on 
the  grave,  I  walked  rapidly  on,  my  mind  so  oc- 
cupied I  scarcely  realized  how  swiftly  I  was  go- 
ing. 

Conscience  was  busy  at  work.    The  question 

of  how  I  had  been  living  since  father's  death 
seemed  forced  upon  me.    Was  I  accomplishing 


T 


51 


One  Quiet  Life. 


the  work  he  would  wish  ?  Was  I  growing  bet- 
ter myself?  I  felt  sadly  conscious  that  since  our 
separation  I  had  been  growing  worse  instead  of 
better. 

"I  am  drifting  farther  from  Heaven  evory 
day,"  I  murmured.  "Can  it  be  that  I  shall 
never  reach  there  at  last  ?  He  told  me  my  heart 
must  bo  changed  before  I  could  be  with  and  like 
Christ." 

With  an  aching  heart  I  walked  steadily  on, 
my  dejection  every  moment  growing  deeper. 
When  I  reached  the  graveyard,  the  stillness  all 
around,  unbroken,  except  by  the  songs  of  birds 
among  the  trees,  seemed  to  oppress  me. 

My  father's  grave  was  in  the  farthest  corner, 
beneath  the  willow  and  cypress  trees,  of  which 
there  was  a  profusion  in  the  graveyard.  Through 
their  leafy  branches  I  could  get  glimpses  of  the 
broadening  river,  as  it  went  to  join  the  ocean  a 
few  miles  below. 

As  I  knelt  by  the  grass-covered  mound, 
yielding  to  despairing  thoughts,  there  came  to 
mind  tliese  words  of  Jesus : 


.4 


! 
i 

4k. 


•owing  bet- 
it  since  our 
instead  of 

iven  evory 
lat  I  shall 
3  my  heart 
th  and  like 

teadily  on, 
ig  deeper, 
billness  all 
Efs  of  birds 

ist  corner, 
,  of  which 
Through 
ises  of  the 
he  ocean  a 

I    mound, 
came  to 


Convernon. 


65 


«  Him  that  cometh  unto  me,  I  will  in  no  wise 

cast  out.' 

"  Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet,  they  shall  be 
as  white  as  snow  ;  though  they  be  red  like  crim- 
son, they  shall  be  as  wool." 

»  Can  those  words  reach  my  case,  I  wondered  ? 
Might  I  not  come  to  Jesus?  Surely  he  died 
for°me."  Raising  my  bead  towards  Heaven  I 
cried  earnestly  for  pardon.  How  long  I  prayed 
I  could  not  tell,  but  it  seemed  like  hours,  when, 
just  as  I  was  ready  to  despair,  I  cried :  r 

"  Lord  Jesus,  receive  me  I  Save  me  1 " 
Like  a  ray  of  sunlight  penetrating  a  dungeon,  so 
I  felt  the  light  of  Heaven  entering  my  soul. 
Brighter  and  brighter  it  shone.  I  rose  to  ray 
feet.  The  trees,  the  sky,  and  the  distant  river, 
were  bathed  in  purer  Ught.  I  exclaimed  aloud : 
« Is  not  this  the  joy  of  the  redeemed  ?  Am  I 
not  God's  child?" 

My  heart  was  bursting  to  tell  my  new-found 
happiness.  Through  the  fragrant  evening  air  I 
hastened  along  the  accustomed  lanes,  resolving 
to  call  at  the  parsonage  on  my  way  home.    The 


"Tr-^TmM 


•?« 


■■»-# 


I 


1 


il 


!iv.-= 


One  Quiet  Life. 

6un  had  set  when  I  reached  there,  and  the  twi- 
light had  so  far  deepened  that  the  light  of  the 
full  moon  shone  distinctly  enough  to  cast  my 
shadow  before  m:,  as  I  passed  up  through  the 
row  of  elms  leading  to  the  door.  Meeting  Mrs. 
Green  in  the  garden  I  asked  anxiously  if  Mr. 
Wilton  was  at  home. 

"  I  heard  him  at  the  piano  a  few  minutes  ago," 
she  replied. 

As  I  listened,  I  could  hear  the  music  floating 
out  through  the  open  window  into  the  moon- 
light. As  I  heard  the  rich,  fairy-like  strains  my 
heart  began  to  faU  me ;  I  found  it  difficult  to 
acknowledge  having  given  away  so  easily  to  my 
ill  nature.  I  asked  myself  if  it  was  really  neces- 
sary I  should  do  so.  While  I  hesitated,  words 
of  Scripture  were  again,  as  at  the  grave,  im- 
pressed upon  my  mind : 

"  Confess  your  faults  one  to  another."  I  re- 
membered the  joy  I  there  experienced  and  which 
was  still  filling  my  soul,  and  then  hesitated  no 
longer. 

A  moment  more  and  I  was  standing  by  the  in- 


,/ 


•■ 


and  the  twi- 
e  light  of  the 
1  to  cast  my 
through  the 
Heetiug  Mrs. 
ously  if  Mr. 

ainutes  ago," 

lusic  floating 
0  the  moon- 
e  strains  my 
i  difficult  to 
easily  to  my 
really  neces- 
tated,  words 
grave,  im- 

her."  I  re- 
d  and  which 
esitated  no 

g  by  the  in- 


Converslon. 


67 


strument.  Mr.  Wilton  looked  up,  and  when  he 
saw  me  ceased  playing.  I  reached  out  my  hands, 
hurriedly  exclaiming :  ' 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wilton,  will  you  forgive  me  ?  I  be- 
lieve God  has." 

"  I  have  nothing,  my  dear  child,  to  forgive." 
He  spoke  as  though  astonished,  but  he  folded  my 
hands  tenderly  in  his. 

"  You  do  not  know,  you  could  not  believe,  how 
wicked  I  have  been;  "  I  exclaimed;  and  then  I 
confessed  the  temptation  and  sin  of  the  morning, 
not  withholding  a  single  fault.  When  I  .had 
ceased  speaking,  he  said  gently: 

« My  poor  little  girl,  I  have  still  nothing  to 
forgive,  and,  now  that  I  have  discovered  your 
honesty  and  independence  of  character,  I  shall 
love  you  more  dearly  than  ever." 

As  he  spoke,  he  stooped  down  and  kissed  my 
throbbing  brow.  I  was  too  mura  absorbed  in 
what  I  had  yet  to  say  to  experience  any  feeling 
of  surprise  at  such  an  unusual  mark  of  regard 
fiom  him.  • 


in* 


68 


One  Quiet  Life. 


"  What  father  told  mo  before  he  died,  and 
what  you  have  often  told  me,  I  have  found  to- 
day to  be  true ;  only  the  half  was  not  told  me 
of  the  joy  and  peace  that  comes  with  the  love  of 
Christ,"  I  exclaimed  hurriedly. 

"  How  have  you  found  this,  Dora  ?  "  he  eag  <rly 
asked.   '\  ;;■  ^-.^  t'  ■^- 

And  then  I  told  him  of  the  distress  of  mind 

and  tho  fullness  of  rest  that  followed,  which  I  had 

that  Jay  experienced.    His  very  hands  seemed 

to  thrill  with  pleasure  and  his  face  to  shinet 

"Let  us  thank  God  together,"  he  said  husk- 
ily. :^;,.^  ;--..-... 

In  a  moment  we  were  kneeling  side  by  side, 
in  the  moonlight.  I  had  never  before  heard  such 
a  prayer  as  he  uttered  that  night,  unless  it  was 
when  father  was  nearing  the  celestial  city,  and 
the  glory  from  its  opening  gates  was  flooding  his 
soul.  Mrs.  Green  heard  his  voice  out  in  the 
garden  and  came  in.  The  solemnity  of  the  time 
reached  ber  heart,  unused  to  the  melting  mood, 
and  wiieu  we  arose  fro;/,  our  kneec  we  found  he 


,' 


tt4li 


he  diod,  and 
ave  found  to- 
s  not  told  me 
th  the  love  of 

?  "  he  eagf  *rly 

tress  of  mind 
1,  which  I  had 
lands  seemed 
to  shinet 
be  said  husk- 
side  by  side, 
re  heard  such 
unless  it  was 
tial  city,  and 
i  flooding  his 
)  out  in  the 
y  of  the  time 
citing  mood, 
sve  found  her 


Converaion^ 


l» 


weeping  by  the  door.  It  was  the  beginning  of 
a  new  life  to  her,  and  to^ay  I  believe  she  is 
walking  with  the  angels  by  the  throne. 

Mr.  Wilton  accompanied  me  home ;  he  wished  • 
to  share  my  mother's  joy.     On  our  way  we  met 
Ashy,  who  returned  with  us.     How  eagerly  I 
tried  to  point  him  to  the  Saviour  I  had  just  found, 
and  to  lead  him  in  the  path  of  peace. 

« It  is  grander.  Ashy,  than  all  our  studies,  bet- 
ter than  Astronomy,  for  Heaven  is  beyond  and 
above  the  stars. 
«  Yes,  Dora ;  and  your  father  is  chere." 
"  Oh,  Ashy,  better  than,  that,  Christ  is  there." 
He  looked  surprised.    Was  it  possible  I  could 
love  any  one  better  than  my  father  1 

When  we  came  to  the  gate  I  saw  mother 
watching  for  me,  in  the  door-way.  My  heart 
bounded  with  delight.  I  was  now  no  longer 
afraid  that  she  and  father  would  wander  alone 
through  bliss,  I,  their  child,  banished  not  only 
from  the  presence  and  cc^panionship  of  my  par- 
ents forever,  but  also,  what  was  even  more  to  be 


60 


Ont)  Quiet  Life, 


deplored,  deprived  of  the  favor  and  fellcwsliip  of 
my  Creator.  I  thought  witli  glad  satisfaction 
that  iu  a  few  years  we  might  meet,  never  to  be 
separated  j  to  be  pure  and  happy  forever. 

I  ran  up  the  steps,  and,  flinging  my  arms  about 
her,  exclaimed : 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  am  so  happy  to-night  I " 
"What  is  it,  Dora?"  she  asked,  surprised  at 
my  manner. 

♦'  God  has  received  me  for  his  child,  mother. 
I  found  him  to-day  at  father's  grave." 

"My  darling  child,"  she  murmured,  folding 
me  to  her  breast.  "1  am  willing  to  go  home  to 
God  now."  ' 


r 


■\ 


'T" 


id  fellcwshipof 
lad  satUfaction 
jet,  never  to  be 
forever, 
my  arms  about 

-night  I " 

d,  surprised  at 

child,  mother, 
ive." 

aured,  folding 
to  go  home  to 


r 


CHAPTER  VII. 

OBPHAIIBD* 

[wo  months  after  my  eventful  visit  to  my 
father's  grave  I  was  an  orphan.  Mother 
fad'^d  gradually  away,  suffering  but  little  pain. 
One  by  one  the  cords  were  severed,  until,  one 
bright  Monday,  like  a  melting  cloud,  she  floated 
out  of  our  sight. 

After  she  was  taken  seriously  ill  I  scarcely 
left  her  bedside  day  or  night.  Those  few  re- 
maining hours  seemed  so  precious  to  me ;  for 
when  she  was  gone  I  should  be  all  alone :  the 
relatives  of  both  parents  away  across  the  ocean 

and  less  beloved  than  the  friends  here. 

6i 


BM 


-E^r-"* 


62 


One  Quiet  life. 


"r 


5~ 


The  day  she  died  I  saw  in  the  early  dawn 
tlmt  she  was  dying.      Tlie  night  previous  she 
had  requested  me  to  sit  alone  with  her;  friends 
lay  in  another  room.    Aehy  was  with  us  every 
night.      Tlirough  those  long,  quiet  hours  she 
told  me  more  of  her  early  life,  particularly  her 
wedded  life,  than  I  had  ever  known  before;  of 
her  happy  home  in  vine-growing   Kent,  where 
Bhe  had  met  my  father  and  consented  to  accom- 
pany him  to  the  wilds  of  America.    She  talked 
for  a  long  time  of  the  bitterness  of  the  separation 
which  had  so  early  loosened  her  hold  on  life. 
Afterward,  with  strange  calmness,  she  advised  me 
about  my  immediate  future,  the  new  cares  that 
would  so  soon  rest  upon  me.    As  the  day  wore 
on,  she  said : 

"  My  darling,  had  you  not  better  leave  me  now 
to  the  care  of  friends,  and  retire  to  your  own 
room  ?  " 

I  understood  her  reason  for  the  request;  I 
said : 

"  My  precious  mother,  I  can  endure  seeing  the 


M 


4fi 


9m 


^::t^I..V»,^-.l^-ff:i'-;l'-f^=--f-^-''«^vr^«-.n■cTOi;l^i2i^>^ 


.L^jr^'^m 


mmmm^ 


MjWkaiaiMylii  llllllliip|l>) 


le  early  dnwn 
t  previous  she 
h  her;  friends 
with  us  every 
liot  hours  she 
articularly  her 
ivn  before ;  of 
Kent,  where 
>ted  to  accom- 
k.    She  talked 
the  separation 
hold  on  life, 
he  advised  me 
3w  cares  that 
the  day  wore 

leave  me  now 
to  your  own 

i  request;  I 

re  seeing  the 


Orphaned.  6§ 

shadow  stealing  over  your  face ;  let  ine  be  with 
you  while  I  can,  for  in  a  few  hours  I  shall  have 
no  mother,  no  gentle,  saintly  mother."  And  I 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

It  pained  her  to  see  my  distress.  Hitherto, 
when  near  her  side,  I  had  controlled  my  emo- 
tions, but  now  ray  anguish  was  too  strong  for  re- 
pression as  I  realized  how  immediate  was  our 
separation.  With  her  arm  about  me  she  said  so 
gently: 

"  My  poor,  stricken  child,  the  Lord  help  you." 

Laying  my  head  on  the  pillow  beside  her  I 
shed  bitter  tears  I  cannot  think  of  that  hour, 
even  now,  with  calmness.  Before  the  people 
came  in  we  took  our  last  farewell,  alone,  in  the 
gray  dawn  of  the  early  morning.  She  became 
drowsy  after  that,  and  only  when  just  at  the 
river  did  she  seem  to  realize  my  presence. 

"  Take  hold  of  my  hand,  Dorothy,"  she  said 
excitedly ;  then,  stretching  out  her  other  hand, 
she  said,  softly : 
,    "O  Christ,  eAott  art  my  all,  my  Heaven  is  in  thee." 


WM^0^^^'-' 


•^^^^ii^i^ii^j 


mf^*  ' 


64 


One  Quiet  Life, 


t 

f 


Then  she  lay  silently,  breathing  slower,  and 
slower,  until  the  last  breath  came,  and  bhe  was 
in  Heaven. 

Mr.  Wilton,  Mrs.  Dutton  and  Mrs.  Mounts 
were  standing  by  the  bedside,  weeping. 

They  seemed  to  me  like  persons  in  a  dream,  I 
heard  their  voices  as  though  they  were  a  long 
way  off;  I  did  not  think  of  crying  then ;  every- 
thing grew  dark ;  I  seemed  to  be  floating  away 
into  the  air ;  half  unconsciously  I  wondered  if  I 
was  dying  too. 

Presently  I  ceased  ta  think  at  all.  The  first 
I  can  remember,  I  was  lying  in  my  own  room, 
on  my  bed,  and  the  afternoon  sun  was  shining 
high  up  on  the  wall.  I  was  worn  out  with 
watching  and  excitement,  and  it  seemed  only 
reasonable  that  nature  should  claim  a  little  rest. 
I  was,  however  immediatoly  able  to  take  charge 
of  everything  as  heretofore.  After  everything 
was  over  and  the  house  arranged,  Mrs.  Mounts 
invited  me  to  spend  a  woek  at  her  house,  I 
dreaded  going ;  I  knew  the  customs  of  her  house 


Orphaned. 


65 


ower,  and 
id  bhe  was 

I.  Mounts 

• 

I  dream,  I 
sre  a  long 
n;  eveiy- 
ting  away 
iered  if  I 

The  first 
wn  room, 
is  shining 
out  with 
med  only- 
little  rest, 
ke  charge 
verything 
i.  Mounts 

house,  I 
her  house 


and  family  would  ill  accord  with  my  sore  heart. 
But  I  asked,  in  lieu  of  a  wiser  counsellor,  the  ad- 
vice of  simple-hearted  Mra.  Dutton. 

« Go  by  all  means,"  she  said,  "  it  will  liven 
you  up  better  than  anything  I  know  of."  Her 
unsophisticated  mind  was  dazzled  by  the  supe- 
rior style  of  their  living.  I  did  not  ask  Mr. 
Wilton  ;  I  think  he  woidd  have  said:  "Stay  at 

home." 

I  went,  and  it  was  the  longest  and  dieariest 
week  I  ever  experienced.  The  only  cheery 
spot  through  it  all  wat.  when  I  went  to  take  my 
music  lessons.  I  practiced  on  Mrs.  Mounts, 
piano  while  stopping  there. 

There  was  a  secret  of  Miss  Jennie  Mounts, 
which  I  fancied  I  discovered,  and  that  was  that 
she  would  very  gladly  take  chai-ge  of  Mr.  Wil- 
ton's heart  and  home  for  life.  Sometimes  I 
thought  he  knew  it  and  was  thinking  seriously 
of  it.  He  was  there  nearly  or  quite  every  day, 
and  they  made  it  so  pleasant  for  him  I  would 
have  gone  quite  as  often  had  I  been  in  his  place. 


^m   v 


66 


One  Quiet  Life. 


i\ 


One  day  after  coming  in  from  lessons  Jennie 
said  in  her  haughtiest  Avay  ;  "  How  long  are  you 
going  to  trouble  Mr.  Wilton  with  those  useless 
lessons?" 

*'  I  cannot  say  j  probably  not  muuh  longer,"  I 
replied. 

"  Well,  for  his  sake  I  should  hope  not,  it  must 
be  a  great  bore  to  him,  when  he  has  so  many 
other  duties."  My  temper  was  aroused ;  I  an- 
swered in  a  similar  tone. 

"  If  it  is,  he  can  tell  me  himself  " 

"  Don't  be  saucy,  child,"  she  said,  angrily. 

I  left  the  room  and  the  house,  walking  di- 
rectly for  home ;  on  my  way  I  stepped  in  to  Mrs. 
Button's;  she  saw  there  was  something  wrong. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dearie  ?  "  Her  voice 
was  so  sympathizing  T  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  I  am  60  homesick,  so  lonely,"  I  said, 
hysterically. 

"  There  is  something  else  the  matter ;  have 
those  pert  girls  been  saying  anything  rude  ?  " 

"It  was  I  spoke  rudely.    Oh,  I  am  so  wicked, 


' 


\ 


Orpha'Md, 


6T 


)ns  Jennie 
[ig  are  you 
3se  useless 


longer,"  I 

ot,  it  must 
3  so  many 
;ed;  I  au- 


igrily. 
Eilking  di- 
iu  to  Mrs. 
ng  wrong. 
3er  voice 

,"  I  said, 

ier ;   have 
ude?" 
o  wicked, 


:i 


ajt 


so  miserable  I "  Ashy  was  in  the  little  room,  I 
did  not  know  he  was  there ;  in  a  moment  he  was 
at  my  side,  looking  down  so  pityingly  at  me 
with  those  soft  brown  eyes. 

"  Come  up  to  the  house  with  me,  won't  you, 
Dora  ?  "  he  asked.  I  gladly  acceded  to  his  re- 
quest, and  it  was  not  long  before  he  bad  dis- 
covered the  cause  of  my  grief. 

'-'  Do  you  think  Mr.  Wilton  is  tired  teaching 
me,  Ashy?" 

"I  know  he  is  not,"  was  the  hearty  repl)', 
♦'  but  if  it  will  be  any  relief  to  you  I  will  find 
out  some  way.  You  didn't  know  he  was  giving, 
me  lessons  now  ?  " 

1  forgot  my  o\/n  troubles  in  Ashy's  good  for- 
tune. "  Oh,  I  am  so  delighted ! "  I  exclaimed. 
"You  will  be  a  scholar  and  great  man  yet. 
Won't  I  be  proud  of  my  boy  then  ?  " 

I  expect  to.be  proud  of  my  girl,  too,"  he  said 
laughingly.  "  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something. 
Mr.  Wilton  thinks  you  are  very  clever,  and  he 
wishes  to  send  you  to  school." 


68 


On/j  Quiet  Life. 


"  It  is  no  use,  Ashy,"  I  said  firmly ; «« after  this 
week  I  am  going  to  be  independent ;  I  am  six- 
teen now ;  labor  is  remunerative,  and  I  shall  go 
to  service  if  I  can  find  nothing  better,  and  earn 
money  to  educate  myself.  I  mean  to  be  a 
scholar ;  you  know  I  promised  father  I  should." 

"  I  like  that  spirit,"  Ashy  replied,  "  but  you 
would  be  wiser  to  take  assistance." 

"  If  you  could  help  me,  Ashy,  I  might  consent, 
but  there  is  no  one  else  that  I  shall  be  indebted 
to  any  longer,  so  that's  the  end  of  it." 

"  Well,  Dora,  I  hope  you  will  succeed,  and  I 
believe  you  will  too." 

"  Do  you  think,  Ashy,  I  could,  teach  school  ?  " 
I  asked  hesitatingly. 

He  looked  up  delightedly.  "Of  course  you 
could ;  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  Or  maybe  I  could  give  music  lessons  to  very 
little  children,"  I  said  somewhat  doubtfully. 

"  Very  little  children,  indeed !  Why,  I  heard 
Mr.  Wilton  telling  some  ladies  the  other  day 
that  you  had  tho  best  expression  and  execution, 


V 


v.— 


— ^y*— 


*  after  this 
I  am  six- 
I  shall  go 
,  and  earn 
to  be  a 
should." 
"but  you 

it  consent, 
I  indebted 

ed,  and  I 

school  ?  " 

)ur8e  you 

IS  to  very 
fully. 
,  I  heard 
»ther  day 
xecution, 


Orphaned. 


69 


I  think  those  ^*ere  the  words,  of  any  person  in 

town." 

"You  good  old  soul,"  I  exclaimed,  enthusi- 
astically, "you  are  always  making  me  happy; 
when  I  am  gone  I  shall  miss  you  more  than  any- 
one, except  Mr.  Wilton." 

"  Well,  you  can  write  every  week,  that  is  one 
consolation." 

It  was  a  consolation,  as  I  found  through  the 
long  months  when  I  had  only  strange  faces  and 
scenes  to  look  upon,  and  when  my  heart  was 
hungering  for  news  of  home  and  friends,  some 
of  whom,  how  dearly  loved  I  sadly  discovered 
before  1  again  beheld  the  accustomed  haunts  of 
childhood. 


.■«>^'aefiiie'w»js»*^ 


MHi 


m 


If 


CHAPTER  Vra. 

GHANOES, 

^ATURDAY  evening  came  at  last,  when 
my  week's  penance  ended.  Miss  Jennie 
repented  lier  unkindness  and  was  more  gracious 
than  formerly,  while  the  squire  and  Mrs.  Mounts 
seemed  anxious  to  have  me  spend  the  winter 
with  them,  but  several  grown-up  sons  and  daugh- 
ters suflBciently  engaged  their  sympathies  and 
attention  and  I  did  not  wish  to  occupy  a  useless 
place  in  any  circle.  I  could  certainly  have  found 
ways  of  rendering  myself  sufficiently  useful  to 
relieve  my  mind  of  a  feeling  of  indebtedness. 
I  went  home  on  Saturday  evening,  thinking  to 

70  ^■■■■ 


?B9j;*^iJ^^(i^?;*K4§T;,;,  -'^v 


Hi^f^^" 


last,  when 
[iss  Jennie 
re  gracious 
rs.  Mounts 
the  winter 
md  daugh- 
ithies  and 
Y  a  useless 
lave  found 
useful  to 
idness. 
hinking  to 


Changes. 


71 


'm 


stay  alone,  but  the  house  was  so  silent  as  tlio 
evening  wore  on  I  became  too  timid  to  brave 
the  darkness  and  solitude,  and  went  down  for 
Alexandria,  now  a  good  seized- maiden  of  eight 
summers.     I  did  not  retire  early ;  my  little  room- 
mate was  sleeping  soundly  in  my  own  crib  which 
I  had  exhumed  from  the  garret,  and  filled  with 
quilts  and  pillows  for  her  to  lie  on.     I  carried 
my  lamp  into  the  parlor,  and  taking  a  book  sat 
down  to  read,  but  it  lay  unread  in  my  lap ;  my 
thoughts  were  busy  with  the  future  that  was 
now  becoming  so  sternly  real  to  me*     What  was 
I  to  do,  which  way  turn  ?    I  might  manage  to 
live  on,  in  a  dreary  way,  in  the  old  house ;  my 
fancy  work  would  probably  keep  me  in  bread ; 
but  how  could  I  secure  the  education  which  I 
felt  was  only  just  getting  its  foundation   laid. 
I  determined  to  cease  troubling   Mr.    Wilton 
much  longer ;  ho  might  not  think  it  an  irksome 
duty,  but  I  knew  others  were  beginning  to  com- 
plain, .i 

"  The  world  is  wide  enougn  for  them  and  me 


•mrtr^ 


S?: 


m- 


One  Quiet  Ltfe. 


too,"  I  exclaimed,  perhaps  a  little  passionat  Jy, 
"  <md  I  won't  aunoy  anyone  witU  my  diUlculties. ' 
F'v,y  brav'j  and  stung  I  felt  then  I    Thanks  to 
ray  lather's  severe  training,  I  had  a  physique  ca- 
psi-'e  of  enduring  any  strain  of  labor  or  study. 
I   rartly  knew  what    weariness  was.      "How 
thankful   I  should  be  to   God  for  health,"  I 
thought,  and  then  I   commenced  enumerating 
my  mercies.    I  had  been  in  a  despairing  mood, 
wondering  why  my  life  was  harder  than  others, 
and  why  so  much  was  laid  on  my  young  shoulders 
•—  bearing  for  so  mauy  years  sickness  of  friends, 
separation,  poverty,  and  loneliness.    But  when  I 
began  to  review  the  past  I  remembered  so  many 
proofs  of  my  Heavenly  Father's  love  I  felt  like 
praising  instead  of  repining.     "  If  we  do  have 
sorrows  here,"  I  thought,  "it  is  only  for  a  little 
while,  and  it  will  be  all  joy  by  and  by.     If  I 
could  only  be  of  some  use  in  the  world,  do  some- 
thiug  to  make  others  happier  and  better,  and 
show  my  gratitude  to  God  who  has  done  so  much 
for  me  I " 


1 


*-v 


Channel 


T8 


1  passionately, 
y  diUlculties. ' 
I    Tbaiiks  to 
I  physique  ca- 
bor  or  study, 
was.      "  How 
3r  health,"  I 
enumerating 
pairing  mood, 
:  than  others, 
ing  shoulders 
ss  of  friends. 
But  when  I 
ered  so  mauy 
^e  I  felt  like 
we  do  have 
ly  for  a  little 
id  by.     If  I 
rid,  do  some- 
better,  aud 
lone  so  much 


I  was  thinlang  so  iLtently  on  my  indebtedness 
ar-^  CO.  parative  uselessness  that  I  did  not  hear 
the  outer  door  open  and  shut,  nor  the  footsteps 
echoing  along  the  silent  hall,  until  I  was  startled 
by  hearing  Mr.  WUton  speak  my  name  as  he 
stood  beside  me.  vg   ,; 

"Why,  Mr.  Wilton,  can  that  be  you?"  I 
asked,  with  surprise.  v^      ' 

«'  I  assure  you  it  is  my  own  self,"  he  said,  smil- 
ingly, as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  you  so  many 
times  this  evening,  but  I  certainly  did  not  an- 
ticipate seeing  you."  ^ 

"  I  am  a  little  sui-prised  myself,"  he  replied ; 
"  but  I  saw  your  window  lighted  and  wondered 
if  you  could  be  here  alone,  and  getting  anxious 
about  you  resolved   to  come    and   see    about 

it." 

"You  will  make  a  bankrupt  of  me,  Mr.  Wil- 
ton; I  shall  never  be  able  to  repay  all  your 
kindness." 

«  Some  day,  Dora,  you  may  be  able  to  give  me 
far  more  than  you  have  ever  received." 


•anf 


iMIWH  [IffliiliiMi'i 


^"iPipi 


^ 


74 


One  Quiet  L^e. 


"  I  will  if  it  is  ever  possible.  I  would  make  a 
great  saciifico  to  help  anyone  who  has  bo- 
friended  me  as  you  have  done." 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  need  you  to  make  any 
sacrifice  for  my  sake,  my  child ;  but  remember  I 
have  your  promise  for  something  great  some- 
day." 

•'  I  shall  remember,"  I  replied  frankly.     « It  is 

not  ofteu  I  love  anyone  intensely,  but  when  I  do 

it  is  a  passion  J  and  I  think  you  have  a  right  to 

the  largest  share  of  my  liking  capabihties." 

He  looked  at  me  curiously,  then,  as  I  thought, 
sadly. 

Suddenly  I  was  shocked  to  think  I  had  ex- 
pressed myself  so  plainly ;  now  it  <,ccurred  to  me, 
what  I  said  innocently  might  be  construed  other-' 
wise. 

"  You  understand  my  meaning,  Mr.  Wilton  ?  " 
There  must  have  been  a  startled  look  in  my  face. 

"  Yes,  Dora,  I  understand,  you  give  me  all  a 
sister's  loving  devotion,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  A  sister's  and  a  friend's,  and  shall  forever,"  I 
replied  feventl}'. 


! 


'^mm^^m- 


-#iS4i»i*i 


Cliangea. 


u 


would  make  a 
who    has    bo- 

i  to  make  any 

t  remember  I 

great  some- 

.nkly.     « It  ia 
ut  when  I  do 
ave  a  right  to 
ilities." 
as  I  tliought, 

k  I  liad  ex- 
Jurred  to  me, 
itrued  other- 

1'.  Wilton  ?  " 
i  in  my  face, 
ve  me  all  a 
3tly. 

I  forever,"  I 


fl 
«i 


•♦Perhaps  not  forever."  He  smiled  as  he 
spoke. 

"Oh,  do  not  say  that,  my  heart  will  never 
change." 

"  You  do  not  understand  my  meaning,  child, 
but  perhaps  it  is  best  so." 

That  was  all  that  was  said  upon  the  subject, 
but  after  that  I  felt  we  were  to  be  friends  until 
death.  How  rich  I  felt  after  this,  for  had  I  not 
the  noblest  brother  in  the  world?  Ashy  told 
Mr.  Wilton  shortly  afterward  that  I  feared  I  was 
occupying  too  much  of  his  time.     He  said : 

"  She  thinks  if  you  are  willing  that  she  won't 
come  again.  You  never  thought  it  a  trouble 
having  her  come,  did  you,  Mr.  Wilton  ? "  Ashy 
asked  in  a  sudden  burst  of  confidence. 

"I  never  thought  it  anything  but  what  it 
really  is,  one  of  my  sweetest  pleasures,"  Mr. 
Wilton  replied, "  and  she  must  not  leave :  I  should 
consider  her  ungrateful  if  she  were  thus  to 
leave  me. 

"  I  will  tell  her  what  you  say ;  she  has  been 


i^H^^ 


IJil    ll»|llJITJj|ipill 


if^i^-'i-hi"  St:^-:'**.*:' 


^(/■MfMf,^ 


l^P'iMIPipapi 


wm 


fi 


One  Quiet  Life. 


feeling  very  badly  since  sho  was  told  about  it." 
Mr.  Wilton  did  not  ask  Ashy  who  hud  spoken 
BO  to  me,  but  turned  abruptly  awuy  leaving  my 
knight-errant  to  recite  the  remainder  of  his  les- 
son next  day. 

"  I  didn't  mind  losing  the  lesson  a  bit,"  Ashy 
exclaimed  to  me  afterward.  "But,  mind  you, 
Dora,  if  Mr.  Wilton  is  good  he  has  a  temper  of 
his  own,  I  know." 

"Why,  Ash}',  what  makes  you  think  so?"  I 
asked  greatly  amuaed,  to  think  he  could  see  any 
fault  in  his  purugon. 

"  Because  he  looked  so  white  when  I  told  hira 
there  were  two  or  three  complained  about  it,  and 
that  you  were  going  to  give  up  studying  for 
awhile  and  go  to  service,  to  earn  the  money  to 
put  you  through  college,  or  whatever  you  call 
those  girls'  schools.  For  fear  he  might  be  cross 
with  you  I  said  it  wuh  because  you  were  so  iude 
pendent,  when  he  said : 

"'She  has  more  nobility  of  nature  than  every 
one  of  them  put  together.'    Ho  looked  as  though 


Change; 


77 


told  about  it." 
10  Imd  spukcn 
;iy  leaving  my 
Jcr  of  Lis  les- 

1  a  hit,"  Ashy 
it,  miud  you, 
a  a  temper  of 

tliiiik  so?"  I 
could  see  any 

m  I  told  him 
about  it,  aud 
studying  for 
the  money  to 
iver  you  call 
light  be  cross 
were  so  iude 

•e  than  every 
:ed  as  though 


HI 


he  would  like  to  shake  them  all,"  Ashy  added, 
thinking  none  the  less  of  the  teacher  on  that  ac- 
count. 

"  Ashy,  my  child,  if  you  talk  much  longer  I 
shall  bo  too  vain  to  speak  to  you  pretty  soon,"  I 
said  l.iughingly. 

"Mr.  Wilton  said  all  the  nice  things,  you 
needn^t  blame  me,  sister  mine.  But  he  said  in 
his  determined  way  thav;  you  shall  never  go  to 
service.  '  She  must  be  guided  by  me  in  this.  I 
will  advance  the  money,  and  she  can  pay  me 
back  some  day.'    Those  were  his  very  words." 

"  It  is  no  use,  Ashy,  I  cannot  go  any  farther  in 
his  debt." 

'*  You  had  better  not  go  too  much  against  his 
wishes;  it  isn't  every  orphan  girl  has  a  friend 
like  him." 

"  I  have  no  claim  on  him ;  besides,  think  what 
he  has  done  for  me  already  I "  , 

"He  takes  pleasure  in  doing  it;  I  don't  see 
but  what  he  gets  more  than  he  gives,  and  has 
plenty  of  noney ;  why,  I  heard  Squire  Mounts 
say  the  othe  r  day  te  was  richer  than  any  other  man 


•■in 


PMn^M^H 


wmmef 


B''*''t'*W'lKI<<¥>>>M4*>i^ppMpM*M 


*9  One  Quiet  Life. 

in  town,  and  that  he  gives  away  a  large  income 
every  year.  If  I  understand  him,  as  I  believe  I 
do,  there  is  no  one  in  the  world  he  would  rather 
help  than  you.  I  know  more  about  men  than 
you  do." 

"  Well  done,  Master  Ashy,  you  have  made 
your  maiden  speech  now." 

"It  was  to  a  very  contrary  maiden  then,'  and 
A.hy  turned  angrily  away.  But  I  was  not  over- 
ruled. 

Mr.  Wilton  came,  and  we  reasoned  the  subject 
for  an  hour  or  more.  I  declined  his  offer  most 
gratefully,  but  firmly.  I  saw  he  \yas  grieved, 
and  my  own  heart  ached  while  I  refused.  "  I 
do  not  know  what  is  the  reason  I  can't  do  as 
you  wish  me,  but  there  is  some  perverse,  wicked 
spirit,  I  suppose  it  must  be,  within  me  that  is  in- 
exorable whenever  I  try  to  reason  away  my 
scruples." 

"  You  won't  ever  be  dependent  on  your  hus- 
band, I  presume  ?"  There  was  a  touch  of  bit- 
terness in  his  voice  that  pained  me. 

"I  haven't  thought  much  about  a  husband 


} 


V 


4^- 


large  income 

as  I  believe  I 

would  rather 

out  men  than 

I  have  made 

sh  then,*  and 
tvas  not  over- 

d  the  subject 
is  oflfer  most 
was  grieved, 
refused.  "  I 
[  can't  do  as 
erse,  wicked 
le  that  is  in- 
n  away  my 

)n  your  hus- 
ouch  of  bit- 

b  a  husband 


iiljii   ><W»iii  ifWK^i  I 


mfm^* 


Changes. 


79 


yet,"  I  replied  gently ;  "  perhaps  I'm  not  made 
like  other  people,  or  the  sadness  of  my  lot  may 
have  kept  such  thoughts  from  me,  but  I  think  if 
I  had  a  husband  I  loved,  I  should  be  glad  to  de- 
pend on  him." 

There  was  a  peculiar  expression  flitted  8  .oss 
his  face  for  an  instant,  then  he  took  my  hand  in 
his,  saying : 

"  I  shall  say  too  much  if  I  talk  any  longer 
with  you,  Dora.  I  will  go  away,  but  not  with- 
out the  hope  that  sometime  you  will  let  me 
help  you." 

I  could  keep  silent  no  longer. 

"I  have  grieved  you,  Mr.  Wilton,"  I  ex- 
claimed tearfully.  "  Will  you  believe  me  if  I 
say  there  is  no  one  in  the  world  I  would  so  soon 
be  indebted  to  as  you  ?  " 

"I  believe  you,  my  own  little  girl,"  he  said, 
hurriedly,  and  stooping  down  kissed  my  face ;  I 
was  surprised,  but  then,  wasn't  I  his  sister? 
However,  it  might  be  better  for  us  to  be  more 
formal  in  our  intercourse.    A  «i'y  had  never  taken 


so  One  Quiet  Life, 

.  a  brother's  privilege  ;  someway  I  did  not  much 
■wish  him  to  do  so ;  of  the  two  brothers  I  discov- 
ered Mr.  Wilton  was  the  favorite.  I  stood, 
watching  him  as  he  walked  away,  feeling  just  as 
proud  of  the  handsome,  noble  man  as  if  he  were 
indeed  my  brother  by  right  of  blood  and  not 
merely  friendship.  "  How  much  I  have  lost  all 
these  years  by  being  deprived  of  a  brother's  love," 
I  thought,  as  I  turned  from  the  bright  sunshine 
into  the  lonely  silent  house. 


J- 


»*- 


-:iy^S^^^r¥ift^^^^^i^-''^ 


[id  not  much 
lers  I  discov- 
;e.  I  stood, 
eeling  just  as 
as  if  he  were 
Qod  and  not 
have  lost  all 
other's  love," 
ght  sunshine 


CHAPTER  IX. 


SCHOOL. 

few  mornings  after  this,  Ashy  burst  into 
the  room  where  I  was  work'ng  and 
studying  together,  with  a  line  from  Mr.  Wilton, 
saying  he  had  procured  me  an  excellent  situa- 
tion in  his  native  city.  I  was  to  be  assistant  in 
a  boarding-school,  with  opportunities  for  taking 
lessoufi  myself.  My  salary,  moderate  at  first, 
would  soon  be  increased,  if  I  gave  satisfaction. 
•.  '•  You  are  a  cherub,  Ashy,"  I  exclaimed  raptur- 
ouily. 

"No,  Mr.  Wilton  is  the   cherub, for  it's  he 

Si 


i 


,^a<i:-4'^"' 


■  ft  irum  iiiiiu 


® 


.1 


82 


One  Quiet  Life. 


that's  bringing  about  all  your  good  fortune.  You 
had  better  thauk  him  and  not  expend  all  your 
gratitude  on  me,"  and  Ashy  looked  decidedly 

cross. 

"  I  shall  not  write  a  single  letter  if  you  don't 

grow  more  amiable." 

"  Well,  I  like  to  see  justice  done  ;  you  treat 
your  best  friend  most  ungratefully." 

"  What  can  I  do  to  please  you.  Ashy  ?  " 

"  Tell  Mr.  Wilton  you  appreciate  his  kind- 
ness." 

"  I  intend  doing  so  directly,"  and  without  fur- 
ther hesitation  I  put  on  my  hat  and  went  to  the 
parsonage.     My  face  must  have  been  in  a  glow, 
the  gladness  in  my  heart  must  have  shone  in  my 
face.     I  did  not  ring  ths  bell,  I  was  quite  certain 
at  that  hour  of  findii  g  Mr.  Wilton  in  his  study. 
I  went  up-stairs  softly,  and  tapped  at  his  door; 
I  could  hear  him  pacing  to  and  fro,  I  was  obliged 
to  knock  the  second  time.     He  must  be  studying 
particularly  hard  this  morning,  I  thought.     In  a 
second  or  two  ho  opened  the  door ;  when  he  saw 


Si<A&'<  i  ■- 


mmr" 


yiM&isf^^^mH^^i^^^^^  -*"' 


;une.  You 
id  all  your 
.  decidedly 

'  you  don't 

;  you  treat 

hy?" 

e  his  kind- 

vithout  fur- 
went  to  the 
a  in  a  glow, 
shone  in  my 
l^uite  certain 
.n  his  study, 
at  his  door; 
was  obliged 
;  be  studying 
lught.  In  a 
when  he  saw 


iSohooi.  m 

me  he  looked  surprised,  and  threw  a  backward 
glance  at  his  coat,  lying  on  a  chair.  Mrs.  Green 
told  me  once  that  he  never  liked  to  be  found  in 
his  dressing-gown. 

"  I  cannot  thank  you,  Mr.  Wilton,  but  I  am  so 
glad  the  favor  came  from  you." 

"  You  will  accept  something  from  me  then  ?  " 

"  All  the  favors  I  receive  from  any  one,  I  ac- 
cept from  you." 

I  answered  heroically,  for  my  heart  was  getting 
BO  full  I  was  afraid  the  tears  would  come.  He 
noticed  my  flushed  cheeks  and  glistening  eyes, 
I  am  sure  but  did  not  try  to  spare  me. 

«  When  will  you  leave  us,  Dora  ?  "  He  spoke 
so  {;ently  that  it  made  it  extremely  difficult  to 
answer  calmly : 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow :  if  necessary." 

"So  soon?  We  shall  scarcely  know  how  to 
get  along  without  you." 

"Ohl  will  you  miss. me  any  at  all?  I  had 
feared  you,  at  least,  would  be  relieved  when  I 
was  gone.    I  have  been  such  a  trouble  to  you. 


r 


'    f!{??Sn?TJ«*?*^^:iP«»*ci?' -- 


ftr- 


S4  One  Quiet  Life. 

but  I  did  not  want  to  be.    I  would  do  anything 
to  serve  you."  .  - 

Then  the  tears  came  in  earnest,  and  I  laid  my 
head  on  the  study  table  and  wept  unrestrainedly. 
He  did  not  disturb  me :  I  heard  the  door  shut 
and  thought  he  had  left  the  room,  so  I  sobbed 
quietly  to  my  heart's  content.  I  began  to  real- 
ize how  painfully  I  should  feel  the  separation  ; 
hitherto,  only  pleasant  thoughts  had  mingled  in 
my  plans  for  getting  away  and  supporting  myself 
independently  of  all  the  world ;  but  now  the  un- 
pleasant reflection  was  forced  upon  me,  that,  in 
going  away,  I  should  be  separated  from  Mr.  Wil- 
ton, and  Ashy,  and  Mrs.  Button's  comfortable 
brood,  for  whom  I  had  come  to  have  quite  a  ma- 
ternal feeling.  There  was.  too,  the  home  of  my 
childhood,  for  which  I  had  a  most  intense  af- 
fection, and  the  two  graves  under  the  cypress 
trees ;  I  could  no  longer  water  the  daisies  that 
grew  upon  them,  nor  gather  the  violets  that  grew 
above  my  mother's  f  jce. 

But  I  recollected  with  a  pang  how  long  I  had 


TTraiT-n'iiiiii 


msmm 


jSjfeilBS«cS?«!««S»**i 


"S 


3  anything 

I  laid  my 
strainedly. 
door  shut 
3  I  sobbed 
an  to  real- 
eparation ; 
aingled  in 
ng  myself 
w  the  un- 
B,  that,  in 
I  Mr.  Wil- 
)mfortablc 
aite  a  ma- 
)me  of  my 
itense  af- 
le  cypress 
aisies  that 
that  grew 


)ng  I  had 


School, 


85 


been  keeping  Mr.  Wilton  from  his  sermon. 
"  How  thoughtless  I  have  been,"  I  exclaimed 
half  aloud.  I  raised  my  head,  and  glancing 
across  the  table  was  startled  at  seeing  him  sit- 
ting there,  looking  quietly  at  me. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  wasted  so  much  of  your 
time,  Mr.  Wilton.  How  patient  you  always  are 
with  me." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  I  did  not  get  wearied 
waiting  for  you  to  raise  your  head.  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  look  at  j^ou  veiy  often,  now." 

"  I  cannot  but  feel  glad  of  it,  for  your  sake." 

"  You  need  not  be  glad,  Dora.  I  should  be 
glad  to  have  you  with  me  always." 

As  he  spoke  I  noticed  he  gave  a  half  sigh  that 
I  had  several  times  caught  him  suppressing. 

"I  must  go  now,  with  my  thanks  unsaid. 
Good-by,  my  brother."  I  looked  up  shyly,  I  had 
never  addressed  him  so  before. 

"  Good-by,  little  sister.  I  will  come  up  this 
afternoon  and  give  you  the  necessary  directions," 
and  he  pressed  my  hand  kindly. 


iy^ffl^Si^^'' 


HMatWHRMUl  liMHMifMMMB 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  PLEASANT  MEETmO. 

VERYTIIING  in  the  school  was,  for  a 
time,  very  strange,  but  not  altogether  un- 
pleasant. I  had  a  comfortable  room  on  the  sec- 
ond floor.  It  was  a  great  building,  with  so  many 
rooms  and  corridors  I  thought  I  phould  never 
get  accustomed  to  it.  When  I  had  been  exam- 
ined in  the  various  branches,  in  order  to  discover 
which  I  was  most  capable  of  teaching.  Dr.  Kye, 
the  principal,  decided  that  I  would  succeed  best 
in  Mathematics,  for  a  beginning,  with  the  possi- 
ble prospect  of  taking  classes  in  other  branches 

before  long. 
86 


SSSSUISUSBSSSBt 


"^ 


1^ 


.-^^^i'iii^i^V  ■'^i'"-, 


A  Fieaaant  Meeting. 


87 


was,  for  a 
gether  un- 
n  the  sec- 
;hso  many 
aid  never 
een  exam- 
to  discover  ' 
,  Dr.  Kye, 
3ceed  best 
the  possi- 
r  branches 


Professor  Auhlraan,  the  head  music  teacher, 
with  whom  from  the  first  I  was  very  favorably 
impressed,  pronounced  me  capable  d'  taking  a 
few  primary  pupils  in  music,  for  wliich  I  wa,^ 
very  grateful  to  him.  My  fondness  for  music 
made  me  willing  even  to  teach  stupid,  indifferent 

learners.         '  • 

Notwithstanding  I  had  what  they  considered 
a  pretty  full  programme  of  duties  to  fulfill,  I  yet 
managed  to  get  plenty  of  time  for  study,  and  had 
not  much  fear  but  that  I  could  graduate  at  the 
end  of  one  year  ;  thanks  to  Mr.  Wilton's  pains- 
taking teaching. 

So  soon  as  Professor  Auhlman  discovered  my 
devotion  to  his  favorite  art,  he  generously  insisted 
on  giving  me  lessons  himself,  '.wice  a  week. 
My  proficiency  was  such  as  seemed  fully  t-o  sat- 
isfy him. 

One  day,  after  I  had  been  unusually  success- 
ful in  pleasing  him  with  my  lesson,  he  said  : 

"  You  will  make  de  most  superbe  pianist.  I 
wish  you  were  my  own  child." 


!»ijjyys^>  ■'•'"' 


!■"..  .)li.!!ip,B' 


i»mi»Mi««»llllnllll«Hll«lli,HMmfM1>« 


88 


One  Quiet  L{fe, 


"  Tour  little  Bertha  will  bo  far  better  than  I, 
probably." 

"  Maybe  so,  maybe  so,"  he  said,  in  his  slow,  re- 
flective way,  "  but  you  are  very  goot." 

Before  leavuig  N.  Mr.  Wilton  said  to  mc : 

"I  fear  you  will  be  frightened  when  you  come 
to  face  those  young  ladies." 

"  I  shall  not,  I  think,  allow  myself  to  be  fright- 
ened by  any  one.  If  they  will  allow  mo  to  teach 
them  I  shall  do  my  best,  if  not,  I  can  but  fail." 

I  did  feel  considerably  abashed,  and  to  confess 
the  truth,  a  little  bit  afraid,  when  I  saw  the 
handsomely  dressed  ladies,  my  associate  teachers, 
and  the  still  more  elegantly  apijareled  young 
maidens,  many  of  whom  were  in  the  classes  I 
was  there  to  instruct.  My  own  exceedingly 
shabby  wardrobe  cost  me  many  a  pang,  and  prob- 
ably a  few  unshed  tears  gave  to  my  purple  eyes, 
as  Ashy  playfully  styled  them,  a  very  misty  look. 
I  tried  to  crush  this  unworthy  feeling  of  coward- 
ice out  of  my  heart ;  the  heart  that  used  to  throb 
BO  despairingly  when  I  was  robing  myself  for  the 


@ 


A  PUoiant  Meeting. 


89 


tter  thr\n  T, 

lis  slow,  re- 

to  mo : 
a  you  come 

)  be  friglit- 
110  to  teach 
)ut  fail." 
to  confess 
I  saw   the 
;e  teachers, 
led  young 
3  classes  I 
Eceedingly 
and  prob- 
irple  eyes, 
oisty  look. 
)f  coward- 
d  to  throb 
elf  for  the 


Bocial  gatherings,  which  formed  a  principal  part 
of  our  arausemouts. 

Notwithstanding  the  ill-concealed  contempt 
and  sneers  that  were  ray  every-day  lot,  I  man- 
aged to  perform  my  duties  with  quite  a  degree 
of  comfort  to  myself. 

Dr.  Kye,  the  principal,  was,  I  thought,  a  little 
dignified  and  unui)proaohttble,  and  it  appeared  to 
me  that  the  teachers  stood  too  much  in  awe  of 
him.  I  resolved  not  to  be  afraid  of  him,  even  if 
I  lost  my  place  ;  cringing  fear  of  any  I  thought  to 
be  but  ft  species  of  slavery.  I  had  seen  the 
teachers  quiver  when  he  came  into  their  class 
rooms.  I  devoutly  wished  he  would  come  into 
mine.  . 

For  some  time  I  waited  in  vain,  but  my  time 
came  at  last.  I  was  hearing  one  of  the  advanced 
classes  recite  ;  the  teacher  was  ill,  and  it  was  at 
her  request  I  had  assumed  the  charge.  I  knew 
I  was  quite  capable  of  teaching  them,  although 
the  class  consisted  of  young  ladies  whom  I  knew 
despised  their  plain  child-teacher.        ... 


I 


90 


One  Quiet  Life. 


When  the  doctor  ciimo  in  he  looked  surpriHod, 
and  then  ii^  a  rather  severe  tone  of  voice  said  : 

"  I  am  surprised,  Miss  Thurston,  to  see  you 
here." 

"  I  am  somewhat  surprised  myself,  sir,"  I  po- 
litely replied. 

"Tell  me  how  it  comes  that  you  have  such  a 
class  ?  " 

"  I  had  rather  the  teacher  to  whom  the  class 
belongs  would  explain  to  you,  sir;  the  period 
for  recitation  is  slipping  by." 

I  knew  it  was  saucy  for  me  to  speak  aa  I  did, 
but  his  voice  and  manner  annoyed  me  exceed- 
ingly. 

"  It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  ask  the  teacher. 
You  will  please  explain  to  me  yourself,  Miss 
Thurston." 

"  The  teacher  was  taken  ill,  and  the  other 
teachers  were  engaged ;  I  was  at  liberty  for  the 
period  and  offered  my  services.  I  will  desist  if 
it  is  your  desire." 

"  Proceed  with  the  recitation." 


■i--** 


I 


1  surprised, 
lico  3ui(l : 
to  800  you 

,  sir,"  I  po- 

lavo  such  a 

a  tho  class 
tho  period 

[ik  as  I  did, 
tne  exceed- 

he  teacher, 
irself,  Miss 

the  other 
rty  for  the 
ill  desist  if 


■  ■  ^:?ff :«:  ?fMH^^W§§» 


'sy  ^^■^!;'!■  fl  fJ:?^-  ifV  ^r'  ''■(?"" 


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WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

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Collection  de 
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'i 


m 


A  Pleasant /Meeting. 


m 


\ 


I  did  so,  and  have  seldom  seen  a  class  do  bet- 
ter. I  had  awakened  their  sympathies,  and  they 
were,  as  they  expressed  it,  ^^frantic "  yfith  de- 
liglit  to  hear  me  talk  fearlessly  to  the  doctor. 

I  made  no  reply :  the  annoyance  had  passed. 
I  was  afraid  my  independence  had  turned  me 
out  of  a  good  situation,  and  a  home  that  was 
every  day  becoming  pleasanter.     I  had  no  con- 
fidantes in  school  and  so  was  obliged  to  bear  my 
anxiety  alone.     I  performed  ray  duties  for  the 
remainder  of  the  day  with  a  heavy  heart,  dread- 
ing to  hear  the  bell  for  faculty  meeting  that  even- 
ing.   When  I  went  into  the  library,  I  found  the 
doctor    there   alone ;   he  bowed  pleasantly  and 

said:  . 

"Really,  Miss  Thurston,  I  should  congratulate 
you  on  your  success  as  a  teacher.  I  shall  write 
to  your  friend  Mr.  Wilton,  who,  by  the  way,  is  a 
dear  friend  of  my  own,  telling  him  how  ably  you 
are  acquitting  yourself." 

"You  lovely  man,"  I  mentally  exclaimed, 
"how  I  should  like  to  put  my  arms  around  your 


^1 


92 


One  Quiet  Life. 


neck  and  ask  your  forgiveness."    I  said  aloud, 
with  a  little  quiver  in  my  voice : 

*'  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  your  kind  re- 
marks, and  shall  endeavor  to  merit  them." 

Just  then  several  of  the  teachers  came  and 
nothing  further  was  said,  but  that  was  the  best 
faculty  meeting  I  ever  attended. 

Gradually  I  came  into  favor  with  the  teachers. 
I  was  always  willing  to  take  an  extra  class,  or 
lend  a  helping  hand  in  any  way,  and,  what  espe- 
cially pleased  them,  was  ready  at  all  times  to  take 
charge  of  a  pedestrian  excursion ;  the  long  walks 
that  would  have  exhausted  most  of  the  teachers 
seemed  only  necessary  exercise  to  me. 

One  day  I  was  walking  along  quickly  at  the 
head  of  a  small  detachmentof  pupils  — we  had 
gone  a  Uttle  beyond  our  time,  and  were  in  dan- 
ger of  being  late  for  some  of  the  classes  —  when  I 
was  startled  at  hearing  some  one  speak  my  name. 
Ahnost  instantly  I  knew  the  voice,  and  looking 
up  saw  Mr.  Wilton  coming  towards  me.  It  was 
against  the  rules  to  have  a  gentleman  walk  with 


m 


1 


-  woM^sasaissasaii^^sf  .**-'- 


said  aloud, 

ir  kind  re- 
m. 

came  and 
s  the  best 

}  teachers. 
a  class,  or 
'hat  espe- 
les  to  take 
ong  walks 
3  teachers 

kly  at  the 
—  we  had 
■e  in  dan- 
■—  when  I 
n>  name. 
1  looking 
.  It  was 
'^alk  with 


A  Pleasant  Meeting.  v9 

us  on  the  street.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  With  my 
usual  impulsiveness  I  resolved  to  give  up  my  sit- 
uation rather  than  lose  that  opportunity  of  speak- 
ing to  Mr.  Wilton,  and  putting  out  my  hand  I 
said  joyously : 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  1    I  did  not  know  I 
should  be  so  delighted  to  see  you." 

"  Dr.  Kye  will  excuse  me  walking  with  you," 
Mr.  Wilton  said,  and  so  set  my  miud  at  rest  on 
that  account.  But  us  we  were  near  our  own 
grounds  it  did  not  matter  so  much ;  beside,  it  was 
a  crowd  of  the  younger  girls,  and  I  knew  a  few 
words  of  explanation  wotild  make  it  right  with 

them. 

"  Shall  I  gee  you  again  ?  "  was  the  first  ques- 
tion I  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  spend  the  evening  with  you,  if 

spared." 

'♦  Oh,  it  nearly  takes  my  breath  away  I  "  I  whis- 
pered, and  as  I  glanced  in  his  face  I  thought  I 
had  never  seen  him  look  so  haudsome  and  so 
happy.     We  did  not  say  much ;  what  was  the 


11 


'i'tmam 


94 


One  Quiet  Life. 


use  ?  I  could  not  tell  him  all  I  wished,  nor  ask 
the  questions  that  were  filling  my  brain,  in  two 
long  hours;  what  then  were  five  or  six  minutes  ? 
It  was  enough  to  know  that  he  was  at  my  side, 
and  that  we  were  walking  along  together  to- 
wards that  delightful  evening.  I  went  into  the 
class  room,  it  was  the  first  period  in  the  morning. 
I  wondered  if  night  would  ever  come. 

All  day  long,  —  and  it  was  a  long  day,  —  I 
watched  the  hands  of  the  clock ;  tlie  minutes 
seemed  to  be  houra.  I  looked  at  my  watch  so 
often  that  Dr.  Kye,  who  was  in  the  school-room 
for  some  time,  came  to  where  I  was  standing  and 
whispered  pleasantly :  '" 

"  Do  the  minutes  go  very  slowly  ?  " 
"  Yes,  never  so  slowly  before  since  I  can  rec- 
ollect." 

"I  shall  feel  it  my  duty  to  report  that  speech 
to  your  friend." 

«  Oh,  you  may  I  Mr.  Wilton  knows  I  love  him 
better  than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  You 
know  he  is  my  brother." 


s 


'  ^tj5^,egg^^KSJS:j^*S#jiE*^fti  - 


i*ls*«S-;*-viiS'?«5S*p5ai^» 


A  Pleasant  Meeting. 


ed,  iioi*  ask 
ruin,  in  two 
X  minutes? 
it  my  side, 
ogethcr  to- 
ut intb  the 


e  morning. 


J  day, —  I 
e  -  minutes 
y  watch  so 
shool-room 
mding  and 


I  can  rec- 


«« I  did  not  know  that." 

"  WeU,  he  is,  and  the  best  brother  in  the  whole 

world." 
i'l  should  not  be  surprised  if  he  were,"  and 

the  doctor  smiled  knowingly. 

As  he  walked  away  I  only  wondered  what  had 
come  over  him,  he  had  becc-ne  so  very  affable 
with  me.    Could  it  be  that  my  fearless  manner 
in  the  class-room  had  wrought  the  change  ?    He 
must  be  a  coward  at  heart,  I  concluded,  or  he 
would  not  be  afraid  of  a  mere  child;  and  I 
looked  after  him  with  a  feeling  in  my  heart  bor- 
dering on  contempt.     How  mistaken  I  was  I  dis- 
covered some  time  afterward,  along  with  a  good 
many  other  strange  things. 


Iiat  speech 

I  love  him 
rid.    You 


i 


^^immmmmm 


CHAPTER  XI. 


A  BEVBLATION. 


jVENING  came  at  last,  and  found  me 
robed  with  more  than  usual  care  for  my 
anticipated  interview.  I  was  ready  half  an  hour 
before  I  was  summoned  and  was  beginning  to 
despair  of  being  called  at  all,  thinking  perhaps  Mr. 
Wilton  and  the  doctor  had  become  so  interested 
in  conversation  that  I  had  been  forgotten.  I 
was  nearly  crying  with  disappointment  when  the 
maid  came  with  the  dainty  Uttle  card  and  the 
well-know  handwriting  in  one  corner  saying: 
«  Come  directly."  I  did  come  directly  and  sur- 
prised him  with  my  promptness.  He  was  stand- 
96 


\ 


■MPMH 


'■■ai(^^wfc*»'.-> 


iKb*'    ^' 


bund  me 
re  for  my 
f  an  hour 
inning  to 
rhaps  Mr. 
nterested 
otten.  I 
when  the 

and  the 
•  saying: 

and  sur- 
as stand- 


A  Revelation. 


97 


ing  with  his  back  to  me,  in  the  doctor's  parlor, 
as  T  entered,  looking  at  some  engravings.  I 
went  softly  up  to  him ;  the  door  was  ajar  and  he 
did  not  hear  me  enter.  I  slipped  my  hand  into 
his  arm,  saying : 

"  Won't  you  speak  to  your  little  girl?  " 

He  turned  around  quickly,  with  such  a  pleased 

face,  and  asked: 

»  Are  you  still  my  littkgirl?  " 

« Why,  certainly  I  am.  But  I  am  not  little 
now.  I  have  grown  so  terribly  lately,  I  feared 
you  would  think  I  was  too  large  to  be  Uttle  any 

""^a'like  you  just  as  well  large,"  he  said,  play- 

We  had  been  talking  busily  for  some  time  on 
different  topics,  chiefly  about  our  friends  at  N., 
when  Mr.  WUton  said  abruptly:       , 

"Do  you  know  Ashy  is  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried, Dora?"  ;  ;  I  ■ 

«  Must  everybody  come  to  that?  I  hope  you 
won't,  Mr.  Wilton,  at  least  not  very  soon."       -  • 


r 


ligSSSii.Ss'.**-'-' 


1 


fi  One  Quiet  Life, 

"ITftve  you  never  loved  nnjono  thus,  Doni?" 
"No,  but  I  Imve  been  expecting  to,  and  fear- 
ing a  little  lest  I  should.      I   should   hate  the 
man  I  loved  better  than  you." 

"And  so  should  I."  He  spoke  with  an  en- 
ergy that  reminded  me  of  the  remark  that  Ashy 
once  made:  "He  has  a  temper  of  his  own."  I 
was  glad  to  change  the  subject  soon  ;  someway  I 
felt  it  was  a  dangerous  topic,  I  scarcely  knew 
why,  but  there  was  something  troubling  me  that 
I  felt  resolved  that  night  to  have  settled,  so  with 
a  slightly  fluttering  heart  I  said  : 

"  Would  you  believe  me,  Mr.  Wilton,  if  I  tell 
you  that  I  have  been  just  a  little  jealous  of  you 
and  Jennie  Mounts.  Ashy's  letters  have  been 
making  me  so ;  I  am  begin;ung  to  distrust  that 
boy." 

"Why  should  you  be  jealous  of  us,  my 
child?" 

"If  she  were  your  wife  you  would  not  then 
seem  so  much  my  friend.  You  would  give  her 
all  your  heart,  of  course." 


■•»a^S«iii»iS3Sa»SS*»»i*S»rySi?}j«K,iaiS4i;'«t.5iSi!»<S 


lud  fi'iir- 
hate  tlio 

i  an  en- 
mt  Asliy 
>wn."  I 
noway  I 
ly  knew 
me  tlmt 
,  80  with 

if  I  tell 
5  of  you 
i^e  been 
ust  th.at 

us,   my 

lot  then 
ive  her 


,     A  Revelation.  ^$$ 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  live  alone  all  my  tlaya, 
Dora?  I  want  some  one  to  make  my  liome 
happy  as  well  as  the  rest.  You  cannot  imagine 
how  lonely  I  am  sometimes."  ' 

The  tears  came  into  my  eyes,  while  my  heart 
ached  with  some  nameless  dread. 

"Oh,  how  dreary  it  seems.  I  thought  I' 
should  bo  perfectly  happy  this  evening,  but  we 
get  talking  about  such  sad  possibilities,  but  it  is 
no  more  than  I  deserv6.  I  am  getting  so  care- 
less and  selfish  since  I  came  hero.  I  did  not 
think  once  that  I  should  ever  be  so  wicked 
again." 

"You  have  not  lost  the  joy  you  found  that 
summer  in  the  graveyard.  I  hope,  Dora?" 

"Sometimes  I  fear  that  I  have  sinned  that 
blessed  peace  away;  I  seem  to  be  going  all 
wrong,  besides,  I  am  not  keeping  the  promise  I 
made  to  father,  to  work  for  others." 

"Have  patience,  my  dear  friend,  I  believe  a 
noble  working-time  awaits  you.  Many  prayers 
have  been  and  still  are  being  offered  for  you,  and 
they  will  yet  be  ans- wpred." 


g^  i£j5Sm  iV 


100 


One  Quiet  Life. 


"  I  used  to  think  more  about  Heaven  and  liv- 
ing for  it  than  I  do  now  ;  it  seemed,  if  I  only  got 
safely  there,  it  would  not  matter  much  if  my  life 
on  earth  were  a  failure,  if  it  were  ouly  pure  and 
good,  but  now  I  fear  the  desire  to  succeed  in 
this  world,  is  stronger  than  any  other  desire  in 
my  heart." 

"You  get  discouraged  too  easily.  You  are 
young,  and  it  is  natural  to  be  ambitious,  but,  by 
and  by,  when  you  get  a  few  more  disappoint- 
ments from  life's  experiences,  you  will  see  how 
poor  a  thing,  at  best,  tliis  world  of  ours  is  to 
satisfy  the  cravings  of  the  heart,  and  then  you 
will  find  that  only  the  love  of  Christ,  and  the 
practice  of  his  divine  precepts,  are  capable  of 
making  us  supremely  happy  in  this  world." 

Our  conversation,  was  kept  up  steadily  and 
most  profitably  to  me,  until  the  entrance  of  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Kye,  when  the  conversation  became 
more  general  and  to  me  less  interesting. 

I  had  been  devoting  the  greater  part  of  my 
leisure  time  in  making  a  present  for  Mr.  Wilton, 
so,  while  they  were  talkif.fji  I  went  to  my  room 


ind  liv 
nly  got 
my  life 
iro  and 
seed  iu 
ssire  in 

!'ou  aro 

but,  by 

ppoiut- 

ee  how 

's  is  to 

en  you 

nd  the 

iblo  of 
>» 

ly  and 
of  Dr. 

became 

of  my 
^Vilton, 
y  room 


BevelatioM, 


M 


and  brought  it  down;  a  pretty  study  cap,  so 
nicely  embroidered  one  could  scarcely  tell  of 
what  it  was  made.  I  laid  it  on  the  hall  table, 
and  when  Mr.  WUton  rose  to  go  I  accompanied 
him  to  the  door,  in  quite  a  state  of  pleased  ex- 
pectation. •  '  '     *  ' 

lie  had  said  good-by  to  the  Doctor  and  Mrs. 
Kyo  in  the  parlor,  when  they  kindly  allowed  us 
to  have  a  moment  alone  in  the  hall.  Giving 
him  the  little  parcel  I  said  :  •     * 

«  Will  you  accept  a  very  small  present  from 
me?  I  lave  made  it  myself  you  were  kind 
enough  once  to  express  a  desire  to  have  some  of 
my  own  work  for  a  keepsake." 

"  Thank  you,  Dora,  I  have  more,  I  fear,  to  re- 
member you  by  than  you  will  ever  know.    May 
I  have  the  brother's  privilege  again  to-night? " 
Without  waiting  for  reply,  he  stooped  down 
and  kissed  my  lips.    In  that  moment  my  heart 
was  unveiled,  and  I  discovered  all  a  woman's 
love  and  devotion  were  smouldering  there,  and 
had  been  for  some  months,  whUe  I  was  so  un- 
conscious of  their  presence. 


*1 


9- 


JC^'WI 


W9 


\Jf^ 


-uriiuipjii  «aiiiw)i!ii|i j|ii|'i|ii|i|i(jkrij'i  ijnu 


*(t»r 


One  Quiet  Life. 

"  Good-by,"  I  said  quietly,  but  did  not  return 
the  warm  pressure  of  his  hand.  I  was  glad  to 
escape  hurriedly  to  my  own  room;  then  the 
thought  came  that  he  was  gone  and  had  not  said 
if  ever  he  would  come  again.  I  laid  my  head 
down  on  the  window-sill  in  the  starlight  and 
wept  «ad,  sweet  tears,  sad  when  I  thought  that 
with  my  woman's  weak  heart  I  should  carry 
this  hidden  pain,  so  newly  discovered,  alone 
through  life. 

Many  a  woman  carries  just  such  a  pain  for 
years  hidden  away  in  her  heart,  and  yet  she 
smiles,  and  hides  her  pain  from  every  eye,  until 
a  kinder  bridegroom  comes  and  gives  that  tired 
heart  rest  in  a  quiet  grave. 


• 


v-i^b^smm^M^iiMm^s^^^^- 


)t  return 
glad  to 
/hen  the 
not  said 
uy  head 
ght  and 
^ht  that 
d  carry 
I,  alone 

pain  for 
yet  she 
'^e,  until 
at  tired 


CHAPTER  XII. 

COMMENCEMENT  EXBECISE3. 

'  FTER  this  I  went  back  to  my  school  du- 
ties with  a  weary  feeling,  as  though  I 
had  lost  my  interest  in  life.  I  was  ashamed  of 
myself  for  giving  what  had!  never  been  asked. 
I  had  promised  once  that  I  would  give  him  a  sis- 
ter's afEection;  I  thought  I  had,  in  its  purity, 
done  so,  now  I  found  I  could  never  bo  sister, 
scarcely  friend.  My  sense  of  honor  would  for- 
bid me  to  longer  indulge  that  most  innocent  in- 
timacy that  had  so  long  existed  between  my- 
self and  Mr.  WUton.    I  tried  to  believe  and  com- 

103 


'  -AT  -ni'  T'Winj'iiirrf  -^ 


1 


One  Quiet  Life. 

fort  myself  with  thinking  that  God  saw  I  needed 
Buffering  to  purify  my  gross  affections  and  de- 
sires, and  that  he  had  sent  this  pain,  which  miglit 
accomplish  tho  desired  end  better  tljan  any  other 
could  do. 

So  through  my  tiresome  duties  my  humbled 
heart  made  its  moan  ;  and  to  hush  its  complain- 
ings* and  find  relief  I  plunged  with  all  my 
strength  into  work.  I  studied  almost  incessantly. 
When  I  walked  with  the  pupils  I  took  my  book 
with  me  ;  I  thought  out  difficult  problems  as  I 
took  my  food,  and  managed  readily  to  keep 
abreast  with  all  my  classes,  not  fearing  but  that 
at  the  end  of  the  year  I  should  take  my  degree. 

Doctor  Eye  noticed  it  all  and  said  to  me  one 
day: 

"  You  will  kill  yourself  if  you  continue  to  work 
80  hard.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  write  to  Mr.  Wil- 
ton about  the  way  you  are  doing." 

"  It  will  make  no  difference.  I  should  die  if  I 
did  not  work." 

Shortly  after  this  I  received  a  long  letter  from 


3h" 


I  needed 

and  de- 

ch  miglit 

my  other 

humbled 
amplain- 
i  all  my 
jessantly. 
my  book 
lems  as  I 

to  keep 
but  that 

degree. 
)  me  one 

5  to  work 
Mr.  Wil- 

d  die  if  I 

tter  from 


Commencement  Exercisei.  105 

Ashy.     He  proudly  confessed  to  loving  the  best 
and  sweetest  girl  in  the  world :  «  At  least  she  is 
so  to  me,  Dora,"  he  said.    "  I  dare  say  somebody 
else  would  think  you  far  better,  perhaps  I  might 
have  done  so  if  I  had  not  found  you  heartless  in 
that  respect."    He  went  on  to  say,  "  I  cannot 
marry  for  a  long  time,  and  Marion  has  consented 
to  wait.    I  suppose  Mr.  Wilton  told  you  about 
her;  she  is  the  new  teacher  who  came  here  a 
short  time  ago.     I  have  been  working  hard  lately. 
Squire  Mounts  has  given  me  employment,  and  I 
am  saving  all  I  can  to  enable  me  to  get  to  school. 
If  you  were  rich  I  should  ask  for  a  loan  of  money ; 
you  once  said  that  you  would  receive  assistance 
from  me,  but  we  can  neither  help  each  othei:  ex- 
cept with  encouraging  words." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Ashy  1 "  I  thought  joyously,  "I  am 
richer  than  you  think."  And  seizing  my  pen  I 
wrote,  saying:  my  salary  was  good  it  had  lately 
been  increased,  for  which  I  had  an  uncomfortable 
fear  that  it  was  owing  rather  to  Mr.WUton's  pri- 
vate generosity  than  to  my  employer's  increased 


IL 


106 


One  Quiet  Life. 


appreciation  of  my  merit.  However  that  might  be, 
it  would  enable  me,  very  materially,  to  assist  my 
friend  towards  the  accomplishment  of  his  desires, 
and  I  gladly  availed  myself  of  the  chance  to  help 
him. 

It  was  under  a  protest  that  Ashy  accepted  my 
help ;  but  the  little  I  was  enabled  to  give,  sup- 
plementing liis  own  scant  means,  enabled  him  to 
enter  school  immediately. 

The  winter  wore  quickly  away ;  I  was  kept  so 
diligently  at  work  I  scarcely  had  a  moment  for 
unhealthy  thought.  But  the  anniversary  exer- 
ercises  were  a  severe  strain;  I  had  my  own 
classes  to  examine,  and  then  take  my  place  to  be 
examined.  I  had  scarcely  a  moment  to  myself, 
from  morning  till  night. 

Mr.  Wilton  was  there ;  he  was  engaged  with 
the  board  of  examinera,  and  seemed  to  have  a 
good  deal  of  business  to  attend  to,  so  that  I  gen- 
erally was  with  him  only  long  enough  to  ex- 
change a  word  or  two.  His  mother  and  sisters 
attended  the  closing  exercises.    I  was  honored 


■  "<!i^mm%t£^mms¥'Wsi^iSi!^ik^'i^' 


'.M!'  wmtrnj^^vt-mofm'!: 


;  might  be, 
assist  my 
lis  desires, 
ce  to  help 

epted  my 
five,  sup- 
ed  him  to 

s  kept  so 
•ment  for 
ary  exer- 
my  own 
ace  to  be 
)  myself, 

jed  with 
0  have  a 
it  I  gen- 
ii to  ex- 
d  sisters 
houored 


Commencement  Sxerciaes. 


107 


with  an  introduction ;  when  I  saw  them,  such 
stately,  grand  ladies,  apparently  so  proud  of  the 
son  and  brother,  I  was  ashamed  to  think  I  had 
presumed  to  call  him  my  brother. 

I  read  my  graduation  essay,  and  they  said 
read  it  well.  I  was  nearly  reckless.  I  had  gone 
at  such  high-pressure  speed  that  even  my  strong 
nerves  began  to  complain.  1  had,  beside,  my  own 
peculiar  heart-aches.  Mr.  Wilton  had  not 
seemed  anxious  to  converse  with  me,  and  I  fan- 
cied rather  avoided  me ;  I  was  tortured  with  the 
fear  that  he  had  been  led  to  suspect  my  secret. 
It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  it  was  I  who  shunned 
meeting  him,  and  repelled  by  my  manner  any  ad- 
vances towards  our  accustomed  intimacy. 

Mingled  with  all  my  other  anxieties  was  a  real 
feminine  trouble.  I  had  been  so  lavish  with  my 
means  that  now,  when  I  so  much  needed  it, 
nearly  every  dollar  had  slipped  out  of  my  purse. 
The  young  ladies  who  were  to  appear  with  me 
on  the  stage  were  to  be  arrayed  like  the  lilies  of 
the  field,  exceeding  Solomon  in  ail  his  glory.    I 


-sfti* 


108 


One  Quiet  Life. 


looked  over  my  scanty  wardrobe  with  rueful 
eyes,  but  I  tried  to  console  myself  by  thinking  a 
few  more  years  to  come  it  would  make  little  dif- 
ference whether  I  wore  silk  or  cotton. 

"I  believe  I  shall  wear  this  print,"  I  said  to 
one  of  the  teachers  who  was  sitting  in  my  room, 
while  I  was  pondering  over  the  subject ;  "  it  is 
the  lightest  dress  I  have,  and  nobody  will  notice 
what  J  wear,  or  how  I  look,  and  if  I  fail,  the  con- 
trast between  the  furnishing  of  mind  and  body 
won't  be  so  marked." 

I  took  the  dress  down  to  the  laundry,  and 
starched  and  ironed  it  myself;  I  would  not  trust 
it  to  a  servant's  care. 

Mrs.  Kye  insisted  on  sending  for  her  own 
hair-dresser  to  &rrange  my  hair.  He  looked  a 
little  aghast,  when  I  let  down  the  heavy  coils. 

"  I  never  worked  with  such  hair  before,"  he 

said,  admiringly.    "Why,  I  know  ladies  who 

would  give  a  fortune  for  what  I  have  in  my 

hand." 

i     He  made  it  look  very  prettily.    When  I  had 


with  rueful 
^  thinking  a 
ke  little  dif- 
1. 

t,"  I  said  to 
in  my  room, 
ject ;  "  it  is 
will  notice 
Eiil,  the  con- 
d  and  body 

undry,  and 
Id  not  trust 

>r  her  own 
[e  looked  a 
avy  coils, 
before,"  he 
ladies  who 
ave  in  my 

(^hen  I  had 


VaJSXm 


•  iU«|ii.  II  «   ^Wj^l 


m  [ 


CommencevMnt  JSxercisea. 


109 


completed  my  toilet,  I  went  into  the  professor's 
music  room.    He  said : 

"  Yrfu  look  very  superb.  Miss  Dora ;  my  Bertha 
will  never  be  handsome  like  you." 

"No  one  else  will  look  at  me  through  your 
spectacles,  I  fear,"  I  laughingly  replied. 

My  composition  was  very  kindly  received, 
more  applause  I  could  not  have  desired.  "  It 
must  have  been  the  cotton  dress  gained  me  their 
kind  opinion,"  I  said,  in  reply  to  Professor  Auhl- 
man's  warm  congratulations. 

"  Oh,  no !  we  nevare  looked  at  de  garments ; 
it  was  de  wonderful  voice  did  charm  us,  and  it 
was  so  like  you ;  I  tought  all  de  time,  it  is  her- 
self is  talking." 

*' Thank  you,  my  good  kind  friend  ;  you  can- 
not know  how  much  I  appreciate  your  encoura- 
ging words." 

*'  I  only  tell  you  what  is  true,"  my  kind- 
hearted  friend  replied,  as  he  turned  once  more 
to  his  music. 

I  sat  down  in  his  easy-chair,  resting  my  tu-ed 


'••mmmtimMi'' 


110 


One  Quiet  Life. 


head,  while,  with  closed  eyes,  I  listened  as  ho 
wandered  on  through  what  seemed  to  me  then 
to  be  labyrinths  of  harmony.    No  musiciai^I  hud 
ever  heard  iu  all  my  life  seemed  to  possess  the 
Boul  of  music  to  such   a  degree  as  Professor 
Auhlman.    He  knew  my  favorites,  and,  glad  to 
please  me,  rendered  them,  one  after  another,  in 
his  most  impassioned  manner.     He  finished  with 
Thalberg's  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  and  turnuig 
round  abruptly,  said : 
"  Shall  you  go  home  now,  Miss  Dora  ?  " 
"I  have  no  home,  really,  to  go  to, Professor,  I 
am  all  alone  in  the  world." 

"  Poor  little  girl  I  den  you  cannot  understand 
dat  piece  I  played  last." 

"  Ah,  yes  1  better,  perhaps,  than  those  who 
have  a  home  and  loved  ones.  I  had  these  once, 
but  I  do  not  expect  to  again,  until  I  find  them 
in  a  world  where  I  shall  listen  to  diviner  har- 
monies than  were  ever  tuned  on  earth." 


I; 


„  \ 


,y  .  I— 


■hmS&hBBE^^^BS^BHHh 


\ 


encd  ns  lio 
;o  me  then 
liciai^I  hud 
[lossess  the 
Professor 
nd,  glad  to 
[luolhor,  ill 
ished  with 
id  turning 

a?" 
rofessor,  I 

nderstaud 

hose  who 
lese  once, 
find  them 
iner  har- 


CHAPTER  Xlir. 


BEPENTANCB. 


A 


BEGAN  to  wonder  next  day  what  I 
should  do  during  the  vacation.  I  could 
retuiii  to  N,,  and  support  myself,  probably,  by 
giving  music  lessons  or  by  fancy  work. 

My  heart  led  me  there  almost  iiTCsistibly ; 
how  could  I  resist  the  longing  that  had  taken 
possession  of  me  to  visit  my  parents'  graves,  all 
that  was  mine  of  kindred  and  love  upon  earth  ? 
I  wanted  too  to  see  the  old  home  and  the  accus- 
tomed scenery,  and  faces  of  children,  and  to  hear 
Mr.  Wilton  preach  one  of  those  grand,  helpful 
sermons  that  used  in  other  days  to  lift  my  hear* 


III 


•*rv&ii 


W-IJIJ-iLJM 


112 


One  Quiet  Life. 


BO  fur  above  the  little  anxieties  and  worriea  of 
life,  my  simple  every  day  life. 

**  Oh,  I  must  go,  it  is  all  the  consoktion  I  shall 
have  for  a  whole  year  I "  I  exclaimed,  passion- 
ately. And  then  the  painful  reflection  came  to 
me :  "  What  am  I  becoming  ?  Where  am  I  drift- 
ing? Surely  I  must  have  lost  the  last  remenaut 
of  the  great  blessed  joy  that  I  once  possessed,  if 
a  short  visit  to  the  scenes  of  my  childhood  is  the 
one  pleasure  of  a  whole  year."  I  began  to  re- 
view the  past  year  and  asked  myself  what  I  had 
been  doing,  how  living.  Had  God  been  in  all 
my  thoughts ;  had  he  been  the  center  of  my  af- 
fections, the  supreme,  abiding  joy  of  my  heart  as 
he  once  was?  I  could  only  despairingly  an- 
swer :  "  He  is  not."  .  The  peade  I  liad  once  en- 
joyed had  given  place  to  unhappiness,  and  un- 
rest. My  best  affections  were  set  on  an  earthly 
object ;  my  highest  ambition  was  to  succeed  self- 
ishly. I  saw  that,  in  a  half-hearted  way,  I  had 
been  endeavoring  to  keep  the  pure  fires  of  di- 
vine love  burning  silently  in  my  breast,  hidden 


"SS! 


'!«»SSIWW&«»fe?t»».»?«*'«S!ft:3f^« 


^■T^.y'r^ijiaai 


worries  of 

Lion  I  ahull 
d,  passioD- 
)n  came  to 
am  I  drif  t- 
:;  remenaut 
•ssessed,  if 
lood  is  the 
!gan  to  re- 
^hat  I  had 
)eeu  in  all 
of  my  af- 
ly  heart  as 
iringly  an- 
1  once  en- 
ss,  and  un- 
an  earthly 
cceed  self- 
[vay,  I  had 
fires  of  di- 
fist,  hidden 


"W 


•r-w 


tfiti 


.  Mepentanee,  '- 


Hi 


from  the  world ;  neither  asking  nor  giving  help ; 
my  light  hidden  under  the  bushel  so  long  that  it 
had  gone  out,  or  so  nearly  so  that  only  a  feeble 
flicker  remained. 

"O  God,  have  mercy  upon  me!"  I  cried  ag- 
onizingly. "I  feel  myself  helpless,  wretched, 
lost.  Thou  only  canst  save  me  from  myself,  my 
only  hope,  my  only  help,  is  iu  thee." 

I  took  my  Bible,  and  as  I  turned  leaf  after 
leaf,  my  eyes  caught  at  length  these  words  of 
blessed  comfort: 

"God  80  loved  the  world  that  he  gave  his 
only  begotton  Son,  that  whosoever  believeth  in 
him  should  not  perish,  but  have  everlasting  life." 
♦♦  There  is  no  reservation  here,"  I  exclaimed,  "not; 
even  for  the  backslider ;  it  is  '  whosoever ; '  I  am 
included  there ;  '  Lord,  I  believe,  help  thou  mine 
unbelief.'"  For  a  long  time  I  remained  kneel- 
ing beside  my  narrow  cot,  praying  for  strength ; 
casting  my  all  of  fear,  of  doubt,  of  pain,  upon 

him. 
The  tea-bell  rang.    All  through  the  afternoon 


114 


One  Quiet  Life. 


1  had  heard  my  class-mutes,  and  pupiln,  or  tho 
teauhcrs,  at  my  door,  some  of  them  coming  to 
bid  a  good-by  that  might  novot  bo  followed  by  a 
meeting  on  earth.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had 
over  refused  any  of  them  admittance,  no  matter 
how  busily  I  might  be  engaged ;  but  now  I  felt 
a  higlier  claim  resting  upon  mo. 

I  bathed  my  swollen  face  and  went  down  to 
the  diiiing-hall,  when  I  was  surprised  to  see  so 
many  vacant  places  at  the  table.  I  was  grieved 
to  have  lost  the  last  adieu  from  many  to  whom 
I  was  strongly  attached. 

"  Dr.  Kye  said :  "  Where  have  you  been  all 
the  afternoon,  Miss  Thurston  ?  You  have  had  n 
number  of  callei-s,  and  many  of  tho  young  ladies 
went  away  disappointed  at  not  seeing  you." 

"  I  will  explain  after  tea,"  I  replied,  wonder- 
ing who  were  my  callers.  He,  however,  passed 
several  cards  down  the  table  to  me,  when  I  was 
surprised  to  see  the  names  of  Mr.  Wilton,  and 
his  mother  and  sisters.  Jennie  Mounts  had  also 
honored  me  with  a  call ;  I  was  not  aware  that 


1 , 


Repentance, 


sho  wns  in  town  ;  ft  short  pang  of  jealous}'  shot 
through  my  heart,  when  I  thought  of  her  visit- 
ing the  city  with  Mr.  Wilton. 

"  Did  thoy  all  corae  together  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  but  Mr.  Wilton  called  twice  afterward 
to  SCO  you." 

"  Did  ho  leave  any  message  ? "  I  asked  anx- 
iously. 

"I  think  not." 

"  Has  he  gone  back  to  N.  ?  " 

"He  told  me  he  would  leave  early  in  the 
morning,  but  he  is  engaged  this  evening  and  will 
not  be  able  to  come  again." 

After  tea,  I  went  into  the  doctor's  study  and 
told  him  of  my  early  conversion,  of  my  succeed- 
ing failures,  and  of  the  great  joy  I  had  that  af- 
ternoon again  found. 

"I  want  you  to  help  me,"  I  said,  earnestly. 
"  I  am  very  weaK,  my  resolves  are  useless ;  I  be- 
lieve if  I  had  some  work  to  do  for  God  I  should 
be  kept  safer ;  I  am  willing  to  work,  no  matter 
how  lowly  it  may  be."     *        •     ^  J    •<     ,i-n,^vm: 

"  I  shall  gladly  help  you  if  I  can,  Dora ;  we 


~«>'--^-trX'''ii,i3xUii^-^~-- ' 


.-s«i^-^ 


III  I 


116 


One  Quiet  Life. 


must  help  each  other.  You  have  done  me  good 
fah'eady.  I  too  have  been  careless  and  worldly, 
may  God  forgive  me.''  He  gave  me  his  hand, 
grasping  mine  fervently. 

"Shall  I  commence  soon?  I  have  lost  so 
much  time  already  I  covet  every  moment  now," 
I  said. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  during  the  vaca- 
tion?" 

"  I  have  not  yet  decided  ;  I  have  been  think- 
ing of  going  home,  but  if  I  can  get  something 
better  to  do  I  will  gladly  do  it." 

"I  can  think  of  several  ways  in  which  you 
could  be  usefully  employ! ;  I  will  think  them 
over  to-night  and  we  will  decide  in  the  morning 
which  will  be  best." 

I  sat  that  night  until  a  late  hour  with  two  or 
three  of  the  young  ladies.  I  felt  strong  then  to 
commence  my  work,  and  why  need  I  wait  for 
to-morrow  ?  "  If  I  only  look  for  it,  1  can  find 
work  every  hour,"  I  said  to  myself ;  "  if  not  for 
others,  I  can  be  making  my  own  life  pure  and 
lovely ;  if  we  were  only  what  God  would  have 


imi 


:-mM%iM~ 


mmm 


\ 


r 


' 


{ 


.^am^-^ 


e  me  good 

d  worldly, 

his  hand, 

ve  lost  so 
lent  now," 

the  vaca- 

een  think- 
something 

vhich  you 
[link  them 
e  morning 

ith  two  or 
ig  then  to 
I  wait  for 
i  can  find 
if  not  for 
pure  and 
3uld  have 


I 


""^ 


Repentance. 


117 


us  be,  our  lives  might  be  a  constant  psalm  of 
thanksgiving. 

"Life,  my  life,  may  be  very  beautiful  aua 
happy  yet,"  I  joyously  thought,  as  my  tired 
head  pressed  the  pillow  that  night,  "  even  if  I 
am  denied  its  great  earthly  sweetness.  If  God's 
benediction  rests  "upon  me,  I  shall  know  noth- 
ing of  unrest,  my  heart  shall  hav-e  no  aching 
void.    He  will  be  my  all,  my  entire  portion."   . 

But  I  found  even  after  this  that  stern  lessons 
must  be  learned  before  this  state  of  rest  can  be 
attained  in  all  its  fulness. 

Inbred  sin  must  be  overcome ;  temptation 
from  without  trampled  beneath  the  feet,  doubts 
and  fears  scattered  to  the  winds ;  but  when  the 
end  has  come,  when  God  shjvU  have  completed 
his  work  in  our  hearts,  and  the  unclouded  light 
of  Heaven  dispels  all  the  shadows  that  surround 
us  on  earth,  then,  in  the  clearer  knowledge  of 
that  perfected  state,  we  will  not  wish  that  one 
painful  experience  had  been  abated,  a  single  de- 
fiance of  doubt  and  difficulty  been  missed. 


CHAPTER  XrV. 


i'  < 

V  I 


HOLIDAYS. 

HE  next  morning  I  awoke  vith  a  strango 
feeling  of  happiness  to  which  I  had  long 
been  a  stranger.  «  What  is  it  ?  "  I  wondered  be- 
fore my  scattered  faculties  were  fully  gathered, 
and  then  the  blessed  experiences  of  the  preceding 
day  came  thronging  to  my  memory. 

After  breakfast,  I  accompanied  the  doctor  in- 
to his  study,  with  a  large  degree  of  expectancy. 

After  we  were  seated,  he  opened  the  conver- 
sation by  saying : 

"  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that,  if  you 

can  remain  in  the  city  during  the  hot  weather, 

the  most  meiciful  work  you  can  engage  in  will 
ii8 


iaa 


a  strange 
[  had  long 
idered  be- 
gatkered, 
preceding 

ioctor  in- 
pectaney. 
iG  conver- 

it,  if  you 

weather, 

e  in  will 


I 


Holidayt. 


110 


be  in  visiting  a  few  of  the  sick  in  hospitals. 
You  can  go  and  come  at  pleasure. 

"  You  can  read  to  the  patients,  and  write  their 
letters,  pray  with  them,  and  help  them  in  many 
ways.  I  know  of  several  families  who  will  will- 
ingly supply  you  with  flowers,  particularly  dur- 
ing their  absence  you  will  be  able  to  get  as  many 
as  you  desire." 

"  Where  will  I  stay  ?  "  I  ventured  to  ask. 

"  The  servants,  some  of  them,  at  least,  will  re- 
remain  here,  and  you  can  manage  to  exist  some 
wa}',  I  dare  say ;  it  will,  I  fear,  be  very  lone- 
some for  you,  but  the  good  you  may  do  will 
make  you  contented." 

"  I  shall  not  mind  the  loneliness,  and  will  be 
very  glad  and  thankful  for  the  work.  If  I  can't 
do  anything  else,  I  can  read  to  them,  and  carry 
them  flowers.  But  where  shall  I  find  books  to 
read  to  them?" 

"  I  will  give  you  the  key  of  the  library,  and 
you  can  make  your  own  selection ;  but  I  think 
you  will  find  the  Bible  the  most  suitable  book. 


lUi  One  Quiet  Life. 

When  peraons  are  alone  among  strangers,  ofueu 
face  to  face  with  death,  it  is  God's  word  they  de- 
sire most  to  hear." 

"  When  will  I  begin  my  work  ?  "  was  my  next 
question. 

"  To-day,  if  you  desire.  I  will  take  you  to  the 
nearest  general  hospital,  and  will  take  you  like- 
wise to  those  from  whom  you  will  obtain  the 
flowers." 

After  a  few  days,  I  found  myself  comfortably 
settled  at  my  work.  At  first  I  felt  terribly, 
passing  among  the  suffering  and  dying.  I  was 
a  stranger  to  weak  nerves,  but  some  of  the  scenes 
tried  my  strength  to  the  utmost. 

There  was  one  patient  in  whom  from  the  very 
first  I  felt  strongly  interested.  A  fair,  pure- 
faced  boy,  not  more  than  fourteen,  who  hud  met 
with  a  serious  accident.  He  had  left  a  pleasant 
country  home,  and  come  up  to  the  great,  busy 
city  to  make  his  fortune.  He  was  errand  boy  in 
a  large,  dry  goods  establishment,  and  had  just 
begun  to  get  accustomed  to  the  bustle,  as  well 


% 


Holiday». 


121 


ers,  ofueu 
1  they  de- 

I  my  next 

'ou  to  the 
you  like- 
btaiu  the 

mfortably 

terribly, 

Q.    I  was 

;he  aoenes 

I  the  very 
air,  pure- 
a  hud  met 
\  pleasant 
•eat,  busy 
nd  boy  in 
had  just 
le,  as  well 


as  loneliness  of  his  new  life,  when  he  was  brought 
into  the  hospital  crushed  and  they  feared  dying. 
I  had  only  begun  my  visits  a  little  while,  when, 
as  I  entered  one  of  the  wards,  with  several 
bunches  of  flowers  in  my  hand,  I  caught  his  eyes 
wistfully  turned  towards  me.  I  generally  se- 
lected some  fragrant,  simple  flowers,  such  as  the 
poor,  who  were  the  most  largely  represented  in 
the  hospital,  were  familiar  with.  I  had  among 
the  rest  a  bunch  of  violets  peeping  through  their 
green  leaves,  looking  so  fresh  and  cool  amid  the 
heat  of  that  midsummer  afternoon.  I  stepped 
to  his  bedside,  and  said  as  kindly  as  I  could : 
"Would  you  like  some  flowei-s,  my  little 

lad?" 

"  Oh  I  if  you  please.    I  should  be  so  grateful." 

« You  may  have  your  choice,"  and  I  held  up 
the  different  bouquets. 

"  I  would  like  the  violets  best,  they  look  so 
like  my  home  in  the  country." 

His  lips  quivered,  and  I  saw  two  great  tears 
standing  in  his  eyes.    I  put  the  Uowera  iu  a  cup 


122 


One  Quiet  Life. 


at  his  side,  where  he  could  look  at  them,  and 
breathe  their  perfume.  I  found  his  forehead 
very  hot,  so,  while  I  bathed  it,  I  talked  to  him 
of  home  and  friends. 

After  we  had  conversed  for  some  time,  he 
said : 

*'  I  have  a  sister  that  looks  like  you." 

"  Can't  you  think,  then,  that  I  am  your  sister  ? 
I  will  try  to  be  just  as  kind  as  if  I  were."  And 
then  I  asked :  "  Would  you  like  me  to  read 
you  some  from  the  Bible  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  so  much !  if  you  would  read  the  four- 
teenth chapter  of  John.  Mother  used  sp  often 
to  read  that,  and  the  following  chapters,  after 
father  died."  -,*,■ 

Eveiy  day  I  visited  him ;  sometimes  writing, 
at  his  dictation,  long  loving  letters  to  his  mother ; 
sometimes  telling  him  of  the  blessed  Jesus,  who 
sympathized  with  us  in  our  sorrows,  and  who 
waits  to  receive  us,  when  this  life  is  done,  into  a 
world  where  there  are  no  bruised  bodies,  or 
crushed  limbs.    Often,  while  I  conversed  with 


them,  and 
I  forehead 
ed  to  him 

I  time,  he 

»> 

our  sister  ? 


re.' 


And 


e  to  read 

the  four- 
d  SQ  often 
bers,  after 

is  writing, 
is  mother ; 
esus,  who 
and  who 
)ue, into  a 
bodies,  or 
srsed  with 


EoUdayt. 


128 


him,  he  would  lay  with  closed  eyes,  from  under 
whose  long,  fringed  lids  I  could  see  the  tears 
quietly  steaUng.  He  would  rarely  make  a  direct 
reply  to  my  occasional  questionings,  but  when 
he  did,  I  could  find  that  he  was  thinking  deeply 
of  preparation  for  death  and  eternity. 

It  became  doubtful  at  last  if  his  leg  could  be 
spared.  The  doctors  came,  and  looked  anx- 
iously at  it,  apparently  dissatisfied  with  the  way 
it  was  progressing.  One  morning,  when  I  went 
in,  he  beckoned  me  to  his  bedside. 

«  Oh,  Miss  Dora,  I  have  been  watching  so  long 
for  you  to  come  !  Don't  you  think,  the  doctoi-s 
are  going  to  cut  my  leg  off  1  What  will  become 
of  me  ?  What  will  mother  do  now  ?  I  was  go- 
ing to  earn  money  to  pay  for  the  farm." 

«  The  I^ord  will  provide,  Willie,  if  we  put  our 
trust  in  him,  and  this  may  all  be  for  your  good. 
It  is  far  better  to  lose  your  leg  than  to  lose  your 
Boul.  Maybe,  if  you  had  been  prosperous,  yoji 
might  have  lost  that,  at  last." 

"  Oh,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  lose  both !    God  can- 


124 


One  Quiet  Life, 


not  love  me,  or  he  wouldn't  take  away  my  health 
and  make  me  a  cripple,  useless  for  life." 

**■  He  afflicts,  very  often,  those  whom  he  loves. 
Every  son  whom  he  receives,  he  chastens." 

"  Did  he  ever  afflict  you  ?  "  he  asked,  with  as- 
tonished gaze. 

"  Yes,  in  a  way  that  I  should  have  thought  far 
greater  than  the  losing  my  right  hand,  or  right 
foot.  We  must  learn  to  trust  God.  I  was  a  long 
time  learning  this,  but  I  believe  I  have  come  to 
do  so  now,  and  what  once  seemed  a  burden  too 
heavy  for  me  to  carry  through  life,  I  have  come 
to  find  the  means  of  procuring  me  my  greatest 
earthly  good." 

"  Will  you  stay  with  me,  vihen  the  doctors 
come  ?  I  won't  mind  it  so  much  if  you  are  here. 
I  wish  you  to  pray  for  me  while  it's  being  done." 
He  looked  at  me  eagerly,  almost  imploringly,  and 
then  bui-st  into  tears. 

"  I  will  come  and  remain  with  you  through  ^he 
operation,  if  I  can  control  my  feelings  ;  but  j  .»o 
will  be  unconscious." 


y  my  health 

B." 

m  he  loves. 

tens." 

id,  with  OS- 

thought  far 
1(1,  or  right 
[  was  a  long 
ve  come  to 
jburdeu  too 
have  come 
ay  greatest 

he  doctors 
u  are  here. 
3ing  done." 
iriugly,  and 

hrough  ^he 
i ;  but  J  >7U 


Holidayt. 


1S6 


"  I  want  you  here  when  I  come  to  myself,  it 
will  be  such  a  comfort  to  see  your  face  then." 

I  gave  him  my  promise  then,  certainly  to  re- 
main with  him  all  the  time,  if  the  dootojs  permit- 
ted. 

That  afternoon  the  operation  was  to  be  per- 
formed, after  the  day  began  to  grow  cooler.  I 
did  not  go  home  to  dinner ;  it  was  a  long  dis- 
tance away  in  the  suburbs,  and  Willie  was  un- 
willing for  me  to  leave  him  for  an  instant.  I 
stepped  into  a  restaurant,  took  a  light  dinner, 
and  returned  immediately.  All  through  the 
dreary  afternoon,  I  sat  with  his  hand  in  mine,  his 
patient,  frightened  face  turned  towards  mine 
constantly. 

"  Is  it  nearly  four  o'clock  yet  ?  "  he  would  ask, 
with  a  half-suppressed  sob. 

Many  times  I  was  obliged  to  say  "  no,"  but  at 
last  the  moment  came,  and  with  it  the  surgeon, 
and  liis  assistants.  The  attendants  carried  him 
to  the  room  where  the  operation  was  to  be  per- 
formed, when  the  preparations  were  completed. 


126 


One  Quiet  Life. 


I  had  stood  trial  during  some  painful  scenes,  but 
had  never  witnessed  anything  so  serious  as  this. 

"  Will  you  be  able  to  remain  ?  "  Dr.  Dowse 
asked. 

"  I  shall  make  the  attempt  for  Willie's  sake," 
I  replied. 

"  You  look  very  pale,  shall  I  get  you  a  glass 
of  brandy?" 

*'  Thank  you,  I  do  not  wish  anything,"  I  re- 
plied. 

Pretty  soon  the  little  patient  fellow  was  un- 
conscious under  the  influence  of  ether,  and  the 
surgeon's  knife  was  entering  the  tender  flesh.  I 
had  sat  with  my  back  to  the  operators,  but,  when 
I  heard  the  grating  of  the  saw  against  the  bone, 
a  momentary  dimness  passed,  like  a  cloudy  film, 
over  my  eyes,  and  I  felt  myself  surging  for  an 
instant,  but  a  quick,  gasping  moan,  as  if  of  pain, 
from  the  boy,  recalled  my  wandering  senses. 
Soon  all  was  done  and  he  was  laid  upon  his 
bed.    I  sat  with  him  until  late  in  the  evening. 

"  You  will  do  him  more  good  than  I  can,"  Dr. 


lenes,  but 
IS  OS  this, 
'r.  Dowse 

j's  sake," 
>u  a  glass 
ag,"  I  re- 
was  un- 
,  and  the 
flesh.  I 
ut,  when 
;he  bone, 
ady  film, 
I  for  an 
■  of  pain, 
;  senses, 
apon  his 
evening, 
an,"  Dr. 


HoUdayt, 


127 


Dowse,  the  surgeon,  said  to  me  when  ho  heard 
Willie  faintly  urging  mo  not  to  leave  him.  "  If 
you  will  remain  until  I  have  completed  my 
rounds,  I  will  take  you  home." 

"  I  shall  stay  with  pleasure,  but  shall  not  need 
to  trouble  you  to  go  so  far.  I  am  not  afraid  to 
go  alone,"  I  said,  gratefully. 

I  remained  until  the  late  twilight  had  nearly 
faded  from  the  sky.  As  I  sat  there  thinking, 
—  my  poor  boy  was  too  weak  to  talk,  or  to  listen 
to  reading  either,  —  pondering  over  the  new 
work  that  had  come  to  me,  I  wondered  if  1 
might  not  be  more  useful  here  than  in  the 
school-room.  "  If  I  were  only  rich,"  I  murmured 
softly,  "  I  should  uot  hesitate  a  moment."  My 
peculiar  training  never  fitted  me  to  be  a  teacher ; 
I  liked  my  liberty  too  well ;  beside,  I  had  rather 
be  helping  the  poor  and  suffering  who  have  so 
few  to  care  for  them,  it  was  more  like  missionary 
work.   :---,"-.     '-■■  ^   -.    ^  ;     V  '. 

I  thought  sadly  of  Willie  longing  to  see'  his 
mother,  and  her  heart  yearning  for  a  glimpse  of 


f^" 


One  Quiet  Life. 

her  only  son.  Suddenly,  like  nn  inspiration,  the 
tliouglit  ocourred :  Could  I  not  beg  the  necerisiiry 
sum  of  money  from  some  of  my  friends,  to  en- 
able her  to  come  ?  If  anything  would  bring  back 
the  rapidly  failing  health  of  the  patient  boy, 
surely,  it  would  be  his  mother's  presence  and 
care. 

While  I  was  pondering  deeply  over  my  newly 
planned  scheme.  Dr.  Dowse  came  for  me.  I  had 
forgotten  his  promise  and  felt  reluctant  to  take 
him  so  far,  when  I  knew  he  must  be  wearied 
with  the  day's  duties. 

*'  I  shall  feel  distressed  at  having  you  go  so 
far,"  I  said  ruefully.  "  I  am  perfectly  acquainted 
with  the  way,  and  have  no  fear  of  the  darkness." 

'*  I  shall  certainly  not  aUow  you  to  do  so  much 
for  my  patients,  and  then  suffer  you  to  walk 
such  a  distance,  after  night,  when  I  have  a  car- 
riage at  the  door." 

I  was  not  sorry,  after  all,  for  the  drive,  out 
through  the  cool  evening  air,  was  certainly  very 
enjoyable.    I  was  exhausted  with  watching  and 


-WSiSWi^i^C^^i&'-A^^Jtlilf^^SW^^ 


ation,  the 
necerisiuy 
ids,  to  en- 
uring back 
Jent  boy, 
lenoe  aud 

my  newly 
le.  I  had 
at  to  take 
3  wearied 

you  go  80 
cquainted 
larkness." 
}  so  much 
to  walk 
ive  a  car- 

Irive,  out 
linly  very 
ibing  and 


BoUdayt. 


129 


anxiety,  and  the  easy  motion  of  the  carriage  was 
grateful  to  my  tired  limbs. 

I  found  the  doctor  a  very  pleasant  companion, 
and  the  drive  seemed  so  short  I  was  surprised 
when  I  saw  the  great  gloomy  walls  of  my  habi- 
'tation  gleaming  in  the  bright  moonlight. 

"  It  is  a  very  long  walk  for  you,  every  day," 
he  remarked,  as  we  drew  up  at  the  door.  "  You 
should,  at  least,  ride  on  your  return  home." 

"  I  am  so  accustomed  to  Avalking  I  think  noth- 
ing of  it." 

"  May  I  ask  if  you  shall  continue  your  wel- 
come visits  much  longer?  " 

"  Not  after  the  holidays,  I  shall  resume  teach- 
ing then." 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  are  spending  your  holi- 
days?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  find  it  a  very  happy  way.  I  like 
to  be  doing  something,  if  it  is  ever  so  small,  to 
help  others." 

After  a  short  pause,  he  said : 

"  I  wish  there  were  more  of  your  mind  in  our 


%<ajRHa 


180 


One  Quiet  Life. 


city.    There  is  so  much  to  be  done,  and  so  few 
to  work." 

Before  I  retired  that  night,  I  wrote  to  Dr.  Kye 
and  Mr.  Wilton,  stating  Willie's  case,  his  desire 
to  see  his  mother,  indeed,  their  mutual  desire  to 
be  together,  and  begged  a  small  sum  from  each,- 
which  I  would  supplement  by  a  few  applications 
to  persons  whom  I  knew  in  the  city.  In  a  few 
days  I  received  answers  to  my  appeals  ;  each  of 
the  letters  contained  a  generous  sum,  quite  suf- 
ficient to  defray  all  expenses,  and  leave  still  a 
small  balance,  in  case  of  emergency. 


i:J«i«tfe**S^''i'-*'V'-''.««-»i<»J«W.l*»!V«ft'W<^ 


W-: 


nnWLij  ti  i»  y 


■  wj  •  ijivov^R^^fvipm** 


,  and  so  feur 

» to  Dr.  Kye 

e,  his  desire 
iial  desire  to 
n  from  each,' 
applications 
'.  In  a  few 
Us ;  each  of 
I,  quite  suf- 
eave  still  a 


R 


J 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Willie's  death. 

ILLIE  did  not  appear  to  do  so  well  as  the 
doctors  wished.  He  was  feverish,  and 
restless,  and  very  often  delirious ;  my  heart  used 
to  ache  as  I  heard  him  calling  pitcously  for  his 
mother.  I  neglected  every  one  else  to  wait  on 
him.  I  still  gathered  the  flowers  and  kept  the 
vases  supplied,  and  took  every  day  to  some  of 
them  an  illustrated  paper  or  book  to  amuse  the 
period  of  tiresome  waiting.  One  young  man, 
Alick  Jones,  in  whom  I  had  been,  previously  to 
WiUie's  coming,  very  much  interested,  said  to 
mc  one  morning  as  I  filled  his  cup  with  fresh 
flowers:  ' 


iiiWi-^tli 


ijlJWJflWiS'J"**'' 


182 


0,ie  Quiet  Life, 


"  You  have  forgotten  all  about  U8  in  this  ward 
you  don't  know  how  we  miss  you." 

"You  would  gladly  excuse  me  if  you  knew 
how  much  more  I  am  needed  elsewhere ;  besides, 
you  are  getting  well,  now." 

"  I  should  get  well  faster,"  he  said,  "if  I  could 
hear  you  read  the  Bible  every  day." 

"  You  %hall  hear  me  then ;  I  must  not  neglect 
anyone  who  wishes  to  hear  that  blessed  book  read." 
•  The  doctor  thought  I  had  better  not  tell  Wil- 
lie his  mother  was  ooming,  until  the  day  before 
we  expected  her.  I  could  hardly  keep  my  se- 
cret ;  he  seemed  to  be  yearning  so  for  a  glimpse 
of  her  loving  face.  I  said  to  him  a  few  days  be- 
fore she  came :  "  Keep  up  your  courage,  you  may 
see  her  sooner  than  you  expect.  I  hope  to  see 
her  coming  in  some  fine  morning  soon." 

He  looked  eagerly  at  me  for  a  moment  and 
then  his  countenance  fell. 

"  I  know  they  are  not  able  to  get  the  money," 
he  murmured,  piteously.  "  Oh  I  must  I  die  and 
never  see  my  mother  again  ?  " 


•' 


■^ 


Wiaie'a  Death: 


133 


this  ward 

p^ou  knew 
I ;  besides, 

if  I  oould 

[)t  neglect 
)okread." 

tell  Wil- 
ay  before 
sp  my  se- 
a  glimpse 

days  be- 
,  you  may 
>pe  to  see 

nent  and 

money," 
I  die  and 


"  You  are  not  going  to  die,  darling,"  I  said, 
more  perhaps  as  a  question  than  an  assertion. 
'*  I  think  I  must  die  soon." 
"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?  "  I  asked,  tearfully.    . 
He  replied,  more  as  if  talking  to  himself: 
*'■  He  said  we  might  come ;  he  died  for  us." 
"  What  do  you  say,  Willie  ? "  .   _,     ,  , 

*' Christ,  the  Lord  Christ,  died  for  me;  you 
have  told  me  so." 

*'  Yes,  dear ;  and  he  loves  you  better  than  we 
can  do,  and  I  trust  lie  will  soon  make  you  well 
again."  ,     .   .  . , .     .^        ..?,.. 

**  I  should  be  able  to  walk  in  heaven,  wouldn't 
I?"  he  asked.  I  could  still  the  rising  in  my 
heart  no  longer,  and  laying  my  head  beside  his 
on  the  pillow,  I  burst  into  tears.       .       ^      ^^ 

"Should  you  be  sorry  if  I  died?"  he  gently 

asked.       ,  *,  ^    ., 

*'  O  Willie,  you  must  live  for  all  our  sakes." 

''Fot  if  Jesus  wants  me  in  Heaven.     He 

knows  how  hard  it  would  be  for  me  on  earth ; 

Hannah  and  the  others  will  cai*e  for  motb  jr." 


134 


One  Quiet  Life. 


While  we  were  talking,  Dr.  Dowse  came  to 
the  bedside;  I  did  not  hear  his  footsteps  and 
was  startled  by  feeling  a  hand  rest  on  my  head 
for  an  instant. 

"What  is  the  matter,  brave  heart?"  he 
asked. 

I  looked  up,  grieved  to  think  I  should  seem  so 
poor  a  nurse.  "Willie  thinks  he  is  going  to 
die,"  I  said,  suppressing  a  sob. 

"  And  you  are  going  to  help  him."  His  voice 
was  slightly  reproachful. 

"Forgive  me.  Doctor,  but  I  shall  do  better  for 
the  future.  You  cannot  know  how  I  have 
learned  to  love  him." 

He  looked  at  me  a  little  curiously,  I  thought, 
and  then  said : 

"  It  is  no  wonder  ^  loves  you." 

The  next  morning  I  was  early  at  my  post; 
while  the  doctor  went  to  the  depot  for  Mrs. 
May.  I  found  Willie  looking  weaker  than  he 
had  yet  done:  my  heart  sank.  "I  fear  his 
mother  has  only  come  to  see  him  die,"  I  thought, 


i^ 


zi^^^'M'^^^^^^li^i^- ' 


>e  came  to 
tsteps  and 
ti  my  head 

eart?"  he 

Id  seem  so 
I  going  to 

His  voice 

better  for 
r  I   have 

'  thought, 


my  post; 

for  Mrs. 
r  than  he 

fear  his 
'.  thought, 


I 


Willie's  Death. 


«"»•.,  mw^m.^ 


185 


as  I  looked  at  his  poov  pinched  face  and  bright 
eyes. 

When  he  saw  me,  he  exclaimed:  "Ohl  I  had 
such  a  lovely  dream  last  night ;  I  thought  mother 
came  and  staid  with  me  for  a  while,  and  then  I 
went  away  into  a  beautiful  field,  where  there 
was  a  river  flowing,  and  on  its  banks  flowers 
were  growing,  far  sweeter  than  those  you  bring 
us,  while  music  seemed  floating  all  around  me. 
Ohl  I  was  so  happy!  I  thought  it  must  be 
Heaven." 

"  Perhaps  it  was,  dear ;  do  you  think,  if  I  told 
you  something  in  your  dream  might  come  true 
to-day,  you  could  bear  it  ?  " 

His  face  flushed  with  sudden  excitement,  "  Is 
my  mother  coming  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  Yes,  Willie,  I  think  you  will  see  her  in  a 
little  while." 

"  When  ?  "  and  his  voice  sank  to  a  whisper. 

«  Perhaps  to-day,  but  you  must  be  brave." 

He  turned  so  pale  I  feared  he  would  faint; 
clasping  his  thin  little  hands  and  raising  his 
eyes,  he  said  reverently : 


186 


One  Quiet  I^fe. 


^  "  I  thank  thee,  blessed  Saviour,  for  thy  good- 
ness." * 

I  heard  the  doctor's  footstep  at  the  door ;  I 
went  to  open  it,  and  there  behind  our  kind 
friend  I  saw  a  timid,  gentle-looking  woman 
with  a  face  so  eagerly  anxious  I  instantly  felt  it 
was  Willie's  mother.  I  put  my  arms  about  her 
neck,  feeling  that  she  needed  sympathy. 

"  Your  dear  boy  knows  you  are  coming." 

The  doctor  held  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass 
through ;  we  had  rtmoved  him  into  a  little  room 
by  himself.  When  Doctor.  Dowse  found  that  I 
had  begged  money  to  bring  Mrs.  May,  he  said  to 
me :  "I  shall  do  my  part  also,"  and  so  obtained 
for  him  extra  accommodation. 

The  door  closed  on  the  widow  and  her  son 
and  turning  to  my  companion  I  saw,  through 
my  own  tear-blurred  eyes,  that  his  own  were 
moist. 

For  a  few  days  Willie  seemed  to  rally,  and  we, 
thought,  his  mother  and  I,  that  he  would  cer- 

.■ '     !  '  J'  r.-.i    f»~    .j'f   •.' 

tainly  recover. 
I  had  more  leisure  now  for  my  other  friends 


1 1 


i 


s 


WUlie'a  Death. 


r  thy  good- 
he  door ;  I 
our  kind 
ig  woman 
ntly  felt  it 
)  about  her 

ling." 

her  to  pass 
little  room 
und  that  I 
,  he  said  to 
)0  obtained 

id  her  son 
v^,  through 
own  were 

y,  and  we, 
nrould  eer- 
ier friends 


t 


\ 


1 


1 


in  the  hospital,  and  received  many  a  pleasant 
greeting  from  Alick  Jones,  who  had  complained 
of  former  neglect.      - 

One  morning,  I  was  a  little  later  than  usual ; 
I  had  not  been  feeling  well  and  the  day  was 
very  unfavorable,  raining  and  blowing  with  low, 
leaden  skies,  and  I  thought,  that  I  should  have 
a  long  day  for  writing  my  letters,  of  which  there 
were  a  number  due.  '  ' 

While  I  was  hesitating,  I  heard  the  door-bell 
ring ;  my  first  thought  was  that  possibly  Mr. 
Wilton  had  come ;  he  had  written  me  that  he 
would  be  in  town  shortly ;  but  my  pleasant  ex- 
pectation was  to  be  disappointed.  Through  the 
half-closed  study  door,  I  heard  Dr.  Dowse  in- 
quiring for  me ;  in  a  moment  I  was  in  the  hall  to 
receive  him.  Immediately  after-the  usual  greet- 
ing, he  said :  "  Will  you  come  with  me,  Willie  is 
very  anxious  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  Is  he  worse  ?  "  I  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  he  is  sinking  very  fast.  But  you  must 
not  grieve,  my  dear  Miss  Thurston,  we  know  it 


188 


One  Quiet  Life. 


"will  be  well  with  him ;  you  should  be  thankful 
for  that." 

I  could  scarcely  be  thankful  for  anything  just 
then.  I  had  become  so  strongly  attached  to  the 
dear,  patient  boy  that  it  seemed  I  could  not  give 
him  up. 

1  was  soon  ready  to  accompany  the  doctor; 
with  rare  thoughtfulness  he  forbore  to  speak,  but 
urged  the  horse  to  his  utmost  speed.    As  we  en- 
tered  the  building  I  said : 
"Will  he  last  long?" 
"  Possibly  until  noon." 

"  So  soon  ?  "  I  whispered,  and  it  was  so,  for  at 
noon  he  left  us ;  but  the  summons  came  gently, 
for  we  scarcely  knew  when  the  spirit  winged  its 
flight  to  the  paradise  of  God.  I  took  Mrs.  May 
home  with  me,  together  with  the  poor  mained 
body  of  her  darling  child. 

"  I  must  take  him  home,"  she  said,  with  tear- 
less eyes  and  stricken  face,  "I  shall  have  his 
grave  beside  his  father's." 

She  had  hitherto  refused  my  offer  to  share  my 


i 


V  •  <» 


thankful 

ling  just 
id  to  the 
not  give 

I  doctor; 
)eak,  but 
LS  we  en- 


so,  for  at 
le  gently, 
.ringed  its 
Mrs.  May 
ir  mained 

with  tear- 
have  his 

I  share  my 


i 


WUlie't  Death. 


189 


home  with  her ;  she  did  not  leave  Willie  day  or 
night.  In  the  early  morning  of  the  succeeding 
day  Dr.  Dowse  came  to  drive  her  to  the  station ; 
as  she  bade  me  good-by  tears,  of  gratitude  stood 
in  her  eyes. 

"  I  can  only  pray  for  you,"  she  said :  "  that  I 
shall  do  so  long  as  I  live.  May  God  reward 
you." 

*'  He  has  given  me  already  all  the  reward  I 
fijsire,"  I  replied,  at  the  same  time  placing  in 
her  hand  the  remainder  of  the  funds  entrusted 
to  my  care  for  her  and  Willie,  and  then  I  kissed 
her  good-by,  just  as  the  carriage  was  starting* 
On  his  return  from  the  station.  Dr.  Dowse  called ; 
he  said :  "  I  thought  a  drive  would  do  you  good ; 
will  you  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  giving  you 
one?" 

I  think  he  seemed  fearful  lest  I  might  refuse. 
Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  I  said : 

"I  shall  be  very  grateful,  and  will  be  ready  in 
a  moment." 

He  looked  so  gratified  that  I  went  to  my 


|i 


tlHr 


■-B.5^-.^if»-yv*p:s»*<.  -■■  '.■■m-«wr- 


One  Quiet  Life. 

room  feeling  glad  that  I  could  confer  a  pleasure 

80  easily. 

A  moment  after,  I  mentally  shook  myself  as  I 
said :  "  You  proud,  foolish  creature,  to  think  any 
one  should  care  for  your  company;  you,  who 
never  had  a  lover  in  your  life;"  and  then  I 
sighed,  just  a  little  sigh,  but  I  could  not  dare  to 
complain  about  anything  now. 


j 


t 


>; '  ■;    •  \ 


;    :t,^..,,,,^-<.,  ■    ,;(; 


^  ■   i>^^^.rrw»-.rtJ^  ,.-.i;.*>l^v^4r!.'^^- 


"^^S 


;  pleasure 

yself  as  I 
Lhink  any 
you,  who 
d  then  I 
ot  dare  to 


I 


;v»V 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


* 


DOCTOR  DOWSB. 


» 


'N  a  few  daya  Dr.  Kye  and  his  family  re- 
turned, and  in  less  than  a  fortnight  our 
school  duties  were  tc  be  resumed.  When  Mrs. 
Kye  witnessed  my  weariness  after  returning  at 
night  from  a  day  spent  at  the  hospital,  she  ex- 
claimed loudly  against  a  continuance  of  such  ex- 
haustive labor,  especially  as  the  school  duties 
would  so  soon  be  pressing  upon  me.      '     ." 

"You  are  unjust  to  yourself  in  assuming  to 
such  an  extent  the  burdens  of  others,  and  if  you 
won't  think  of  yourself,  I  must  think  foi  you," 

she  said  in  her  determined  way  a  morning  oi* 

141 


HI; 


142 


One  Quiet  Life. 


two  after  their  arrival,  as  I  was  preparing  to 
leave  for  the  hospital. 

"  You  will  at  least  let  me  go  once  more  to  suy 
good-by?"  I  askedlaughingly. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  must  be  allowed  that 
privilege,  but  remember  that  must  be  all." 

I  felt  a  little  sadly  at  the  thought  of  ceasing 
my  visits  to  my  sick  friends,  for,  without  any 
undue  elevation  of  mind,  I  knew  that  they 
would  miss  me. 

When  I  was  telling  them  that  day  that  I 
must  leave  them  very  soon,  probably  for  good, 
in  the  midst  of  our  leave-taking.  Dr.  Dowse 
came  in. 

"What  is  the  matter  here,  that  you  look  so 
sober  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"Matter  enough,"  my  young  Alick  replied, 
"  we  are  losing  the  sunshine  of  the  house." 

"  How  so  ?  "  As  the  doctor  spoke,  he  glanced 
laughingly  towards  me.  "That  must  be  you 
Miss  Thurston." 

"If  so,  there  must  be  very  shadowy  sunshine 


'^^-i~r^ 


Doctor  Dowet.. 


148 


paring  to 

jro  to  buy 

iwed  that 
11." 

)f  ceasing 
hout  uny 
ibat  they 

ay  that  I 
for  good, 
r.  Dowse 

lU  look  so 

k  replied, 
ise." 

16  glanced 
3t  be  you 

Y  sunshine 


M) 


here,  I  feel  more  like  a  cloud  just  now,  and  you 
will  see  the  drops  pretty  soon  if  I  don't  leave." 

I  started  for  the  door,  the  doctor  following 
me. 

''  You  didn't  mean  that  we  shall  not  Ree  you 
here  again  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Our  school  commences  shortly  and  thoy 
think  I  must  take  a  few  days  first  of  entire  rest, 
but  I  shall  try  to  come  somt  anes." 

"  Shall  I  drive  you  home  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  shall  bo  very  glad  to  have  one  more  drive 
with  Gypsey,"  I  replied.  | 

"  I  hope  you  may  have  a  great  many  more." 

"Thank  you,  I  should  enjoy  it  a  great  deal 
more  than  Gypsey,  I  dare  say." 

"Not  half  so  much  as  Gypsey's  master,  I 
fear."        • 

I  noticed,  as  he  spoke,  the  same  expression  flit 
across  his  face  that  I  saw  when  he  found  me 
that  day  in  tears  at  Willie's  bedside.  I  did  not 
make  any  reply,  but  for  an  instant  wished  it 
were  Mr.  Wilton  at  my  side,  instead  of  Dr. 


il 


w 


i-i»imSmi 


ftSfflSS 


144 


One  Quiet  Life. 


Dowse.    His  nezL  question  startled  me  ;  I  need 

not  add  that  it  gave  me  pain.    He  said  gently : 

"May  I  hope  some  day  to  have  the  right  to 

keep   you  by  my  side  untU   death  parts  us, 

Dora?" 

Was  he  asking  me  to  marry  him,  I  wondered? 
I  looked  up  into  his  face;  it  was  all  aglow,  that 
still,  self-contuined  face  with  some  deep  emotion. 
He  must  havo  seen  a  look  of  surprise  in  my  up- 
turned face,  he  spoke  eagerly :    ' 

"  You  understand  my  meaning?  I  want  you 
for  my  wife.  You  can  never  know  how  I  have 
learned  to  love  you." 

"Oh I"  That  was  all  I  could  say,  but  he 
fully  understood,  instantly,  what  that  Uttle  ejac- 
ulative  implied. 

« I  have  surprised  you,"  he  said  hurriedljr ;  "  I 
might  have  known;  can  you  not  learn  to  love 
me?  I  will  be  wUling  to  wait,  willing  to  take 
you  ^ith  ever  so  small  a  share  of  your  heart, 

darling." 

»  Oh,  my  dear,  best  friend,  I  am  so  sorry,  but 


'I 


f> 


> 


.-_JSlSSi'Ei'*'f  i  '^H^i^sEiT 


Doctor  Dotv^e. 


145 


ne ;  I  need 
aid  gently : 
he  right  to 
a  parts  us, 

wondered  ? 
aglow,  that 
iep  emotion. 
6  in  my  up- 

I  want  you 
how  I  have 

say,  but  he 
kt  little  ejac- 

arriedl7 ;  "  I 

earn  to  love 

Uing  to  take 

your  heart, 

so  sorry,  but 


m 


I  love  another;  I  cannot  help  telling  you  that 
which  I  had  thought  no  one  would  ever  know." 

« Is  that  love  not  returned?  " 

«'  Only  the  love  of  a  brother  is  given."    I  felt 
my  cheeks  crimson  under  his  gaze. 

"  How  can  he  help  loving  you  as  a  man  only 
once  in  a  life-time  loves  a  woman?"     There 
was  a  suppressed  passion  in  his  voice  that  star- 
tled me.     He  did  not  speak  again  but  urged  his 
horse  to  her  utmost  speed.    As  I  sat  at  hi^  side 
and  thought  of  the  new  life  I  had  but  just  re- 
fused—a life  that  might  have  been  so  full  of 
love  and  usefulness,  with  a  friend  and  husband 
whom  scores  of  girls,  as  rich  and  beautiful  as  I 
was  poor  and  plain,  would  gladly  have  accepted. 
I  wondered  if  I  was  doing  right,  had  I  done  right? 
Although  my  heart  was  aching  for  rest  and  af- 
fection I  was  glad  I  had  said  no,  or,  at  least, 
what:  was  its  equivalent.     I  had  long  ago  re- 
solved that,  so  far  as  I  was  able,  I  should  be  true 
and  honest  in  my  intercourse  with  everyone,  how 
much  more  so  in  such  a  case  as  this ;  but,  never- 


14G 


One  Quiet  Life. 


theless,  the  wish  did  trouble  me  somewhat,  as  I 
sat  by  his  side,  that  I  could  have  honorably  ac- 
cepted his  hand  and  heart;  a  gift  so  great  for 
one  like  him  to  give  me. 

Garrulous  nuree  at  the  hospital  had  informed 
me  of  his  wealth,  and,  what  with  persons  of  their 
class  is  so  important,  his  anstocratic  connections. 
How  could  I  then  doubt  the  reality  of  his  afTec- 
tion  in  asking  me,  a  humble,  penniless  girl,  to 
share  his  home  and  fortune  ? 

When  we  were  saying  good-by  at  the  door,  as 
I  stood  with  my  hand  in  his  T  said,  possibly  with 
a  quiver  in  my  voice  ; 

"I  want  you  for  my  friend,  will  you  let  mo 
love  you  as  such  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  think  of  me  in 
any  way,"  he  said  as  be  wrung  my  hand. 

After  I  had  watched  him  out  of  sight,  I 
thought  with  a  pang.  "  Is  this  the  joy  of  having 
lovera,  the  pleasure  of  triumph  I  have  heard  the 
girls  talk  so  much  about?  Oh  I  it  is  sadder  far 
than  Willie's  death,"  I  murmured.    "  What  a 


S3S?S:i 


ewhat,  aa  I 
norably  ac- 
o  great  for 

d  informed 
ms  of  their 
jnncctions. 
f  his  afTec- 
38S  girl,  to 

le  door,  as 
isibly  with 

Du  let  me 

:  of  me  in 

id. 

'  sight,  I 

of  having 

heard  the 

ladder  far 

'What  a 


I 


Doctor  Dotvae* 


147 


dreary  thing  life  is  I  I  see  there  is  nothing  for  me 
but  Heaven  and  the  rest  from  every  sorrow  that 
I  shall  find  there."  In  the  seclusion  of  my  own 
room  I  asked  myself:  ''  Could  he  love  mo  as  I 
too  love  another,  and  would  the  burden  of  that 
unrequited  love  give  him  the  same  unrest  of 
soul  that  I  endure?  If  it  were  not  a  sin  I 
would  almost  iather  have  married  him  to  save 
so  noble  a  heart  from  such  suffering  aa  I  have 
experienced." 

I  passed  a  sleepless  night ;  like  a  tiresome  re- 
frain the  question  would  haunt  me.  Was  it  im- 
possible for  two  to  think  of  each  other  as  dearly 
cherished  friends  without  one  of  them  overstep- 
ping the  bounds  of  friendship,  and  encroaching 
on  that  fairer  field  that  liea  within  every  other 
of  human  affection  ?  I  could  see  plainly  where  I 
had,  in  the  past,  erred.  I  should  have  looked 
more  to  my  own  sex  for  companionship,  but,  alas  I 
with  the  sterner  sex  I  had  found  moro  nobleness 
of  character,  and  could  I  be  blamed  for  my  pref- 
erence?   I  determined  then  to  look  anxiously 


•^'-  '--iiaafcyiie* 


;gtirt$iiiiii,  ji"yii  it  jiia.iifTi»rTiug«iiiii  saitiiii'i  yi^ 


•  148 


One  Quiet  L\fe. 


among  the  fresh  arrivala  at  the  opening  of  the 
school  for  a  friend,  and  one  not  likely  to  spoil  it 
all  someday  by  falling  in  love  and  marrying. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  met  Dr.  Kye  at 
breakfast,  my  pale  face  and  jaded  look  alarmed 
him.  "How  thoughtless  I  have  been  to  allow 
you  to  wear  yourself  out,"  he  exclaimed.  "  You 
shall  have  your  holiday,  too.  How  would  you 
like  to  gotoN.?" 

I  thought,  "Would  the  tired  child  lost  in  the 
darkness  be  glad  of  its  mother's  embrace?  I 
quietly  answered,  "  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  go 
anywhere  now." 

"  Why  so  ?  "  he  asked,  abruptly. 

I  blushed  painfully.  Should  I  confess  to  my 
poverty  ?  I  had  not  a  dollar  left ;  he  must  have 
guessed  the  cause  of  my  embarrassment. 

"You  cannoi  have  expended  much  on  your 
wardrobe ;  I  cannot  discover  even  a  new  ribbon," 
he  said,  playfully.  I  did  not  make  him  Ai:y  re- 
ply. "I  am  indebted  to  you  for  several  favors," 
he  said,  kindly,  "and  I  can  remain  so  no  longer." 


'%? 


Doctor  Dowie, 


149 


ng  of  the 
to  spoil  it 
•ying. 
:.  Kye  at 
c  alarmed 
I  to  allow 
I.  "You 
ould  you 

38t  in  the 
•race  ?  I 
me  to  go 


3SS  to  my 
lust  have 

on  your 
ribbon," 
i  ary  re- 
.  favors," 
longer." 


I  wondered  at  the  time  what  he  could  mean, 
but  had  nearly  forgotten  all  about  it.  At  twi- 
light, that  same  evening,  I  went  to  sit  for  an 
hour  or  two  with  Mrs.  Kye,  and  to  have  a  romp 
with  Frank  and  Lulu.  They  were  frolicsome 
children  and  I  enjoyed  a  half  hour's  fun  with 
them  now  and  then. 

While  we  were  in  the  midst  of  a  noisy  game 
we  heard  the  doctor's  footsteps  at  the  door,  his 
entrance  was  generally  the  signal  for  a  cessation 
of  the  game,  whatever  it  might  be.  When  he 
saw  me  he  handed  me  a  paper ;  in  the  deepening 
twilight  I  was  obliged  to  carry  it  to  the  window 
to  discover  its  contents.  How  my  heart  jumped 
when  I  saw  that  it  was  a  pass  to  and  fro  to  N. 

"  O  Doctor  I  how  shall  I  thank  you  ?  "  I  joy- 
fully exclaimed. 

"By  taking  an  installment  on  your  salary," 
he  replied,  handing  me  my  first  quarter's  allow- 
ance for  the  coming  year. 

"  The  next  question  now  is,  how  I  shsill  ever 
repay  you  for  all  that  you  have  done  for  me,  es- 


t^timmikammimmmmimsmmm 


^ 


r 


150 


One  Quiet  Life, 


pecially  this  last  act  of  kindness.  I  suppose  Mr. 
Wilton  has  told  you  how  troublesomely  inde- 
pendent I  am  ?  " 

''Yes,  and  he  has  told  me  so  many  things 
about  you  I  have  been  surprised  that  he  has  not 
come  to  claim  such  a  treasure  for  his  own." 

I  was  glad  the  darkness  concealed  my  crimson 
face.  It  was  not  long  until  I  was  safe  in  my 
own  room  trying  to  measure  the  extent  of  my 
coming  happiness,  and  trying  also  to  plan  for 
the  few  days  among  the  scenes  anU  friends  of 
my  childhood  so  that  every  moment  might  be 
yielding  its  harvest  of  joy.    ^ 

The  pleasure  of  going  to  my  home  was  greatly 
heightened  by  the  unexpected  prepayment  of 
salary.  I  was  glad  to  be  able  to  show  those 
who  had  befriended  me  that  I  was  not  forgetful 
of  their  former  acts  of  benevolence,  and  although 
the  gifts  were  pitifully  small,  I  knew  those  for 
whom  they  were  intended  would  appreciate  them, 
not  for  their  intrinsic  value,  but  for  the  grateful 
spirit  which  prompted  them.    I  resolved  to  take 


ppose  Mr. 
aely  inde- 

,ny  things 
lie  has  not 
)wn." 
ly  crimson 
afe  in  my 
ent  of  my 
i  phin  for 
friends  of 
might  be 

as  greatly 
yment  of 
low  those 

forgetful 
.  although 

those  for 
iate  them, 
I  grateful 
id  to  take 


Doctor  Dowse. 

the  noon  train  of  the  following  day  for  N.,  and 
would,  even  then,  have  suflBcient  time  after  its 
arrival,  to  make  my  way  to  Mi-s.  Dutton's  before 
nightfall.  Among  all  the  kind  friends  who,  for 
my  parent's  sake,  I  knew  would  gladly  welcome 
me  for  a  week's  stay,  I  felt  more  strongly  drawn 
•towards  Mrs.  Dutton's  beaming  fireside  than 
any,  although  the  question  of  sleeping  accom- 
modations perplexed  me  somewhat. 

I  was  awake  the  next  morning  at  dawn,  and 
had  my  valise  packed,  and  room  set  in  order, 
before  the  rising  bell  sounded  through  the  silent 
building.  How  happy  and  light  my  heart  felt 
as  I  went  softly  singing  about  my  room  that 
early  morning ;  over  and  over  I  asked  myself  if 
it  could  be  true,  that  I  should  see  the  dear  home 
before  I  lay  on  the  pillow  that  night.  But  I 
was  not  sure,  just  then,  of  having  a  pillow ;  I 
might  be  obliged  to  content  myself  with  a  rock- 
ing-chair in  Mrs.  Dutton's  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Kye  noticed  my  poor  appetite  at  break- 
fast, which  drew  the  doctor's  attention,  and  I  was 


u 


152 


One  Quiet  Life. 


obliged  to  sustain  myself  against  a  good  deal  of 
good-natured  raillery;  I  could,  however,  that 
day,  have  submitted  patiently  to  anything  they 
mi^ht  hive  said;  it  would  have  been  next  to 
impossible  to  haYe>  raffled  my  serenity. 


I 


'ooddcalof 

wever,  that 

ything  they 

>en  next  to 

^' 

'* 

H 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


HOMK  AGAIN. 


soon  completed  all  the  purchases  my 
means  would  allow,  and  was  enabled  to 
to  pay  a  flying  visit  to  my  hospital  friends.  I 
feared  Dr.  Dowse  would  impute  a  long  alisence 
to  what  he  had  said  the  day  before,  and  I  hon- 
ored him  too  highly  to  wotmd  his  feelings  un- 
necessarily.  I  met  him  at  the  door,  as  I  was 
leaving.  I  saw  a  flush  come  over  his  face  at 
sight  of  me,  for  an  instant,  and  then  it  was 
gone. 


i^^i 


154 


One  Quiet  L{fe. 


I'  ^ 


"  I  have  come  to  say  good-by.  I  am  going  to 
make  a  visit  to  N.,  and  I  was  afraid  you  would 
wonder  at  my  absence." 

♦♦  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  your  thoughtfulness. 
I  should  have  been  pained  to  think  I  had  driven 
you  from  here." 

*'  I  would  only  come  all  the  sooner,"  I  said  ea- 
gerly. "I  look  upon  you  now  as  one  of  my 
best  friends." 

"  I  shall  bo  glad  to  do  all  for  you  that   the 
nearest  friend  can  do,"  he  said  a  little  sadly  I 
thought,  then  in  a  lighter  tone  he  asked  if  he 
might  drive  me  home. 

I  was  grateful  for  his  offer,  for  I  was  really  fa- 
tigued, and  forgetting  for  the  time  that  it  was 
his  busiest  part  of  the  day,  I  stepped  gladly  into 
the  easy  carriage,  and  soon  found  myself  at 
home. 

After  an  early  dinner  I  drove  to  the  station. 
I  was  in  quite  a  fever  of  anxiety,  lest  the  train 
should  leave  me.  As  it  was  I  had  a  good  halt 
hour  to  wait ;  but  tlie  time  soon   passed,  and  I 


mimttimtimmi^ 


■ 

m  going  to 

you  would 

• 

:.             '        '     • 

ghtfulness. 

had  driven 

'  I  uaid  ea- 

)ne  of  my 

that   the 

e  sadly  I 

isked  if  he 

IS  really  fa- 

lat  it  was 

"m 


jladly  into 
myself   at 

le  station. 
b  the  train 
good  halt 
)sed,  and  I 


., 


Nome  Again. 


156 


found  myself  flying  along  towards  the  dearest 
spot  on  earth  to  me. 

When  we  reached  the  station,  I  found  Mr. 
Wilton  waiting  with  his  carriage,  to  take  me  to 
the  parsonage.  He  came  in  with  such  a  pleased 
look  on  his  face  I  could  not  hide  the  joy  I  felt 
for  a  few  minutes.  The  warmtlj  of  his  welcome 
scarcely  exceeded  the  pleasure  I  manifested  at 
seeing  him.  He  said,  while  we  were  waiting  for 
the  crowd  to  leave : 

♦'  I  have  been  waiting  here  these  two  hours  for 
you.  I  could  not  rest  until  I  came  here,  and 
then  I  was  equally  impatient  for  the  arrival  of 
the  train." 

*'  How  did  you  know  I  was  coming  ?  "  I  asked 
wonderingly.     "I  thought  to  take  my  friends 

by  surprise." 

"  A  little  bird  whispered  it  to  me,"  he  replied 
with  a  smile. 

"  I  think  it  was  a  very  large  bird,  whose  wings 
won't  have  plumed  for  some  time  to  come  ;  the 
same  bird,  I  fancy,  who  bought  me  the  ticket  to 


■5 


' 


Otu  Quiet  Life. 

come  here." 

"  Then  it  was  not  through  your  own  free  will 
that  you  came  ?  " 

«  Yes,  it  was.  If  my  will  could  have  brought 
me,  I  should  have  been  here  long  ago,  but  you 
know  that  won't  pay  one's  passage." 

I  sighed  softly  as  I  thought  how  nearly  I  had 
come  to  losing  this  great  pleasure.  He  looked 
at  me  closely  for  a  moment ;  I  could  see  that  he 
took  in  at  a  glance  my  plain  attire.  It  did  not 
trouble  me  to  acknowledge  my  poverty  to  him ; 
he  knew  me  too  weU  to  think  that  I  did  it  for 
effect. 

"  You  should  not  rob  yourself,  Dora,"  he  said 
gently ;  "  but  I  fear  you  spare  too  much  for  oth- 
ers, and  care  too  little  for  yourself." 

"Do  you  think  with  our  natures  there  is  any 
danger  of  that?"  I  asked  thoughtfully.  «My 
fault  has  always  been  to  think  of  self  first,  and 
last,  too,"  I  added  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  It  is  better  to  err  as  I  know  you  are  doing, 
Dora,  but  I  do  not  like  to  think  of  you  being  de- 


own  free  will 

have  brought 
ago,  but  you 

nearly  I  had 
He  looked 

I  see  that  he 

It  did  not 
3rty  to  him ; 

I I  did  it  for 

«a,"  he  said 
ich  for  oth- 

bhere  is  any 
illy.  « My 
If  first,  and 
luse. 

are  doing, 
u  being  de- 


Mome  Again, 


167 


prived  of  anything  that  would  add  to  your  com- 
fort and  happiness." 

'*  Weil,  I  am  so  happy  to-night  that  I  feel  as 
rich  as  CroesuSi** 

For  a  while  I  could  scarcely  refrain  from  ex- 
hibiting the  exuberance  of  my  delight  in  some 
childish  way.  I  enjoyed  the  drive  along  the  ac- 
customed streets  so  supremely  that  I  had  foi-got- 
ten  to  tell  Mr.  Wilton  that  I  wished  to  go  di- 
rect to  Mrs.  Dutton's,  until  the  horse  was  enter- 
ing the  carriage -drive  leading  to  the  parsonage. 

"  Shall  I  alight  here,  or  will  you  take  me  to 
Mrs.  Dutton's? "  I  iisked,  somewhat  uneasily. 

"  You  do  not  think  of  staying  there  ?  " 

"  It  is  nearest  home,  and  I  had  rather  go  there 
than  stay  at  any  other  place." 

•'I  think  Mrs.  Dutton's  sleeping  apartments 
are  already  in  an  overcrowded  state."  He  gave 
me  an  amused  look  as  he  spoke.  .    ..rw .  >.  -.. 

*'  Oh,  an  easy-chair  will  be  sufficient  for  me, 
until  I  get  some  better  arrangement  made,"  I  ea- 
gerly answered.  .t3^,i^i.y!j  ;!«;  .*^    /  .^jsi„ 


158 


One  Quiet  L\fe. 


♦*  I  shall  not  allow  my  little  sister  to  do  any- 
thing like  that,  when  we  have  half  a  dozen  un- 
occupied sleeping  rooms." 

I  only  wondered  what  Mrs.  Mounts  and  Jen- 
nie would  say  .to  such  a  proceeding.  WhUe  I 
hesitated,  he  said : 

"  We  are  expecting  you  here." 

My  heart  stood  still  for  an  instant.  "  Are  you 
married,  Mr.  Wilton?"  My  voice  sounded 
strangely  even  to  myself. 

''  Would  you  congratulate  me  if  I  were  mar- 
ried, Dora?" 

For  an  instant  a  film  came  over  my  eyes,  but 
I  held  cut  mj  hand ;  he  was  standing  beside  the 
carriage,  waiting  to  lift  mb  out ;  I  was  able  to 
murmur  half  audibly,  "  I  hope  you  will  be 
happy." 

'Just  then,  I  saw  a  lady  within  the  door,  and  a 
pleasant  voice  asked : 

"  Have  you  come,  Philip  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  we  are  here."  He  stood  ready  to  lift 
me  from  the  cair:;ge. 


to  do  any- 

a  dozen  un- 

ats  and  Jen- 

y.    WhUe  I 

"  Are  you 

ice  sounded 

I  were  mar- 
ay  eyes,  but 
ig  beside  the 
cvas  able  to 
rou  will  be 

3  door,  and  a 


ready  to  lift 


»»".  '7  ■ 


Home  Again. 


169 


"  Is  that  your  wife,  Mr.  Wilton  ?  "  I  looked 
at  him,  I  did  not  know  my  face  was  so  ghastly. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Dora,  are  you  sick  ?  "  he 
asked  huniedly. 

'■^  I  was  able  to  murmur  an  almost  incoherent 
"no."  Like  a  dagger,  the  question  presented  it- 
self to  my  mind : 

''  Can  that  woman  love  him  as  I  have  done  ? 
May  Ixod  forgive  me,  as  I  do,  now  I " 

"Should  you  be  sorry  if  I  were  married, 
Dora  ?  " 

Someway,  from  his  manner  of  speaking,  my 
mind  felt  relieved. 

"  I  should  wish  always,  to  see  you  happy,"  was 
my  rather  unsatisfactory  reply  to  his  question. 

"  Ah,  well,  my  child,  you  need  not  fear  losing 
your  brother.  I  am  not  married,  and  do  not 
know  that  I  shall  ever  be." 

Then  he  introduced  me  to  the  pleasant-voiced 
lady.  How  groundless  my  fear  anU  pain.  It 
was  oaly  his  sister  I  Her  greeting  jvas  bO  kindly 
her  manner  so  cordial,  that  I  felt  instantly  at 


<-i/lim'9V-''^^»i:f-' 


MMH 


if 


One  Quiet  Life, 


eoBQ  in  her  presence.  She  conducted  me,  her- 
self, to  my  room,  which  I  found  so  comfortable, 
and  cheery,  the  wish  unbidden  came  that  I 
could  stay  in  it  forever,  or  rather  claim  it  for  my 
own. 

When  I  glanced  at  my  companion's  rich  even- 
ing dress,  and  contrasted  it  with  my  own  shabby 
costume,  I  was  tempted  to  wish  myself  beside 
Mrs.  Button's  homely  fireside.  But  mortified 
vanity,  unbecoming  habiliments  and  all,  I  felt 
that  I  would  still  prefer  having  my  earnings  in- 
vested as  they  were  than  to  have  them  expended 
in  fine  clothes.  I  consoled  myself  with  the 
thought  that  ten  years  hence  it  would  not  mat- 
ter much  how  I  was  then  habited,  while  the  lit- 
tle I  had  been  enabled  to  expend  for  others 
might  'still  be  benefiting  some  one.  While  I 
was  arranging  my  hair,  Miss  Wilton  said :         .» 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  have  you  here,  I  get  so  lonely 
in  my  brother's  absence."    ;  .  iU    i  v     ;     ,^5 ; . 

"  You  have  plenty  of  books  and  music,"  I  re- 
marked. ■  ■...  "  -  ".-■.■■    „:  :  '-.,i^>  -c^   1^ .;;..,-■  ;i:-  ,4,u 


"-] 


me,  her- 
afortable, 
e  that  I 
it  for  my 

ich  even- 
n  shabby 
If  beside 
mortified 
all,  I  felt 
cnings  in- 
expended 
with  the 
not  mat- 
te the  lit- 
or  others 
WhUe  I 
id:  -.  ., 
ISO  lonely 

lie,"  I  re- 


*^ 


i- 


Some  Again. 


161 


*'  Ah,  well,  one  needs  something  beside  books 
for  company.  I  had  rather  have  you  sitting  near 
me  than  the  presence  of  a  hundred  musty  fo- 
lios." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  I  laughingly  replied, 
"  I  wish  I  could  gratify  your  desire.  It  is  so  de- 
lightful to  be  here,  I  can  scarcely  realize  that  I 
am  once  more  at  home." 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  home  then,  directly, 
when  school  was  done  ?  " 

I  thought  I  migl\J;  as  well  plainly  confess  to 
my  lack  of  means,  so  I  frankl}'^  answered  her  ques- 
tion. 

"  I  had  not  at  the  time  sufficient  money  to  pay 
my  fare,  without  depriving  myself  of  a  few  of 
the  necessities  of  life ;  and  beside,  I  wished  to  be 
doing  something  for  those  who  need  our-  help. 
I  was  enabled  to  see  how  selfishly  I  had  been 
living,  and  I  hoped  to  atone  for  the  past." 

"  And  you  remained  in  the  city  through  all 
the  heat,  without  a  breath  of  fresh,  pure  air,"  she 
said  pityingly. 


m 


One  Quiet  Life. 


"  But  I  was  needed  there  the  most.  Pec>plo 
leave  the  city  just  when  the  sick  need  care  the 
most.  I  am  young  and  strong,  and  can  endure 
hardship,  such  slight  hardships  as  I  have  as  yet 
had  to  meet." 

"  I  should  believe  that,  together  with  teaching 
all  the  year,  you  had  very  much  more  than  your 
share." 

"Ohl  it  was  pleasure  compared  with  what 
thousands  in  that  one  city  have  to  bear.  I  did 
not  know  until  recently  that  there  was  so  much 
misery  in  the  world,  and  it  does  one  good  to 
find  how  much  more  others  suffer." 

"  You  must  be  very  happy  living  such  an  un- 
selfish life,"  she  said  wistfully. 

"  I  have  scarcely  begun  to  live  that  life  yet. 
Here  I  liave  left  duties  of  my  own  that  others 
will  be  obliged  to  perform,  merely  for  my  own 
pleasure.  I  do  not  know  but  that  I  am  more 
selfish  than  most  persons,  but  I  cannot  regret 
that  I  am  here.  It  is  compensation,  a  hundred 
fold,  for  all  I  have  endeavored  to  do  for  others." 


•v^ 


Pec'ple 
.  caro  the 
n  endure 
,ve  as  yet 


teaching 
han  your 


ith  what 

r.     I  did 

so  much 

good  to 

h  an  un- 

life  yet. 
t,t  others 

my  own 
am  more 
ot  regret 

hundred 
:  others." 


•v? 


Home  Again. 


163 


The  tea-bell  rang  then,  interrupting  our  far- 
ther conversation.  When  we  went  down-stairs, 
I  found  Mrs.  Green  waiting  to  speak  with  me. 
She  expressed  so  much  pleasure  at  seeing  me,  I 
was  led 'to  wonder  if  she  would  be  willnig  again 
to  endure  the  excruciating  sounds  I  used  to 
make  at  the  piano. 

I  spent  such  a  happy  evening,  the  pleasantest 
I  had  known  for  months.  I  soon  forgot  my  plain 
attire,  both  Mr.  Wilton  and  his  sister  had  such  a 
happy  art  of  making  one  feel  so  perfectly  at  home 
with  one's  self  and  all  the  world. 

He  seemed  gratified  with  the  progress  I  had 
made  in  music.  I  had  got  so  now  I  could  trans- 
late those  mysteries  of  sound  much  more  melo- 
diously than  when  I  used  to  give  poor  Mrs. 
Green  the  noises  in  her  head. 

We  retired  late.  I  had  enjoyed  the  evening 
so  supremely  I  was  incredulous,  when  Mr.  Wil- 
ton said: 

"  It  is  nearly  midnight.  We  have  been  very 
forgetful  of  Dora's  weariness."  * 


:-i(f 


■T' 


IWpiP||JI|JlU|llUl|i.[|ipil|i!| 


^r< 


m 


One  Quiet  Life. 


"  I  had  foi;gotten  it  myself,"  I  answered. 

At  prayers  that  evening,  it  was  a  psalm  of 
thanksgiving  Mr.  Wilton  read,  and  as  I  leaned 
my  head  back  on  my  easy-chuir,  I  thought,  with 
closed  eyes  but  rejoicing  heart,  what  a  thanks- 
giving my  whole  life  should  be.  I  felt  that  God 
was  giving  me  sunshine  after  the  storm-cloud, 
just  as  it  was  needed.  I  believed  then  that  I 
should  never  again  yield  to  despairing  thoughts, 
after  the  way  in  which  he  had  led  me.  "  How 
I  must  ever  walk  in  the  light,"  I  only  murmured, 
**  even  until  I  reach  the  unclouded  light  of  the 
hereafter,  when  we  shall  know  even  as  also  we 
are  known."  And  then,  there  came  a  pain  to  my 
heart,  so  sharp  in  its  bitterness  that  the  teara 
stole  down  under  the  tightly-closed  lashes. 
Sadly  I  recollected  that  it  was  not  thus  I  was 
known  in  this  home. 

When  Mr.  Wilton  had  finished  reading  the 
psalm,  and  said  in  those  full  rich  tones  that  al- 
ways thrilled  my  heart  so  strangely,  "  Let  us 
pray,"  I  crouched  beside  my  chair,  glad  to  be 


1 


■'iA 


Homp  Again. 


165 


:ed. 

psalm  of 
1 1  leaned 
ght,  with 
^  thanks- 
tbat  God 
rm-cloud, 
n  that  I 
thoughts, 
.  "  How 
urmured, 
ht  of  the 
s  also  we 
un  to  iny 

the  teara 
1  lashes, 
lus  I  was 

diug  the 
s  that  al- 
,  "  Let  us 
ad  to  be 


■9? 


able  to  conceal  the  emotion  I  could  not  control. 
As  he  prayed,  asking  for  grace  to  enable  us  to 
to  live  aright,  for  strength  to  overcome  the 
world  and  our  own  hearts,  and  that  we  might 
live  earnest,  holy  lives,  my  heart  joined  in  a  fer- 
vent amen,  while  soon  I  felt  the  peace  entering 
my  soul  that  always  follows  believing  prayer. 
When  we  arose  from  our  knees,  I  had  regained 
my  composure,  and  could  say  good-night  as 
calmly  as  if  there  were  no  need  of  hiding  a 
thought  from  either  of  them. 


=lf 


'■.^.g^iitju."  I  ^imiji.  Mjxisx :.  mmmimfim. 


CHAPTER  XVIII.  . 

OLD  FBIENDS. 

HE  next  morning  I  was  awake  at  an  earljr 
hour,  anticipating  a  world  of  pleasure  for 
that  day.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly,  and 
through  my  open  window  the  fragrance  of  a 
thousand  blossoms  was  pouring  in  a  dewy  sweet- 
ness. -  '■■"'■' 

As  I  gazed  from  my  window  through  the  clus- 
tering trees  that  adorned  the  grounds,  I  could 
gain  glimpses  of  the  surrounding  landscape.  It 
seemed  to  me  then  that  if  I  could  only  live  in 
that  lovely  spot  I  should  have  nothing  left  to 

wish  for ;  and  then  I  thought,  if  I  only  possessed 
i66 


ft 


If 


mmsimmmm 


•MM 


u4 


an  earljT* 
asure  for 
itly,  and 
ice  of  a 
ry  sweet- 

the  clus- 
,  I  could 
jape.  It 
ly  live  in 
g  left  to 
possessed 


'I 


I  > 

1;   I 


•'  If  I  could  only  live  in  that  lovely  spot." 
Page  l(i«. 


■I 


l> 


A.,  t 


>1 


11 


^ 


i«MM 


■tf\ 

LL 


•Jl**" 


■  ll>P|.HIII)fl,.ll|i.  lUf 


I 


Old  Friends. 


167 


HI 


that  pence  that  pnaseth  xintlcrstniKling  in  nil  its 
fullness,  I  could  bo  liappy  anywhere  on  earth  or 
in  any  society.  I  believe  I  waa  that  morning 
standing  near  the  confines  of  that  blessed  border 
land  which  Bunyan  describes,  where  the  birds 
are  always  singing  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  river 
of  life  is  sparkling  in  unclouded  light,  while,  just 
a  little  way  beyond,  lies  the  city  of  the  re- 
deemed. 

My  heart  was  overflowing  with  thankfulness 
to  the  Father  who  loved  me,  and  whose  benedic- 
tion was  resting  upon  me,  and,  as  I  glanced  up 
through  the  rustling  leaves  that  only  partially 
concealed  the  blue  heavens  beyond,  I  realized 
that  I  might,  with  those  I  loved,  in  a  little  while 
be  gathered  there  safe  forever. 

"  How  happy  are  the  sainted  dead  I "  I  ex- 
claimed half  aload,  when  a  voice  within  me 
seemed  to  whisper  that  I  should  be  happy  too. 
The  same  grace  that  enabled  them  to  triumph 
was  freely  offered  to  me,  while  in  addition  God 
had  called  me  to  be  a  co-worker  in  the  world's 


sass 


^fi^WMMMI*^ 


168 


One  Qwet  Life. 


\ 


ripening  harvest  field.  Already  I  had  taken, 
with  futiblc,  trembling  Imnd,  the  sickle  and  stood 
amid  the  waving  grain. 

"  Am  I  wearied  of  the  work  ?  "  I  asked  my- 
self. 

"  Not  wearied,  no,  anxious,  doubly  anxious  to 
endure,  even  through  the  noonday  heat,  on  to 
the  eventime,  when  God  might  say,  even  to  me, 
weak,  and  tempted  though  I  might  be, '  Well 
done,  faithful  servant.' " 

Whether  it  was  the  glorious  morning-time, 
with  the  bird  going  wild  with  ecstacy  of  song, 
and  tho  balmy  air  redolent  with  the  fragrance 
of  the  summer  blossoms,  together  with  nature's 
early  matinals,  no  discords  anywhere,  the  most 
distinct  sounds  I  could  hear  being  the  distant 
melody  of  tinkling  bells  on  patient  cows  as  they 
wandered  through  the  pastures'  richness,  whether 
it  were  these  combined  that  thrilled  me  so  I 
cannot  tell,  but,  it  may  be,  when  we  hold  deep- 
est communion  with  his  fairest  works  that  God 
most  plainly  speaks  with  us.    It  was  amid  the 


T^ 


ad  taken, 
and  utood 

asked  my- 


mxious  to 

oat,  on  to 

iren  to  me, 

be, '  Well 

ning-time. 

"* 

y  of  song, 

fragrance 

h  nature's 

the  most 

le  distant 

(vs  as  they 

1 

s,  whether 

■4 

me  80  I 

lold  deep- 
that  God 

1 

amid  the 

" 

Old  Friendt. 


160 


overwhflraing  grandeur  of  Sinai  tliat  Moaes  lield 
liighest  intercourHO  with  Jehovah. 

It  was  not  so  much  prayer  as  praise  I  mingled 
with  that  morning's  sacrifice  which  I  offered 
kneeling  in  the  ttewy  air  as  it  floated  througlj 
my  open  window;  for  weeks  the  hallowed  in- 
fluence of  that  morning's  communion  continued 
with  me. 

I  hoard  the  bell  at  last,  and  supposing  it  the 
sunmions  to  breakfast  I  went  down  to  join  my 
friends,  feeling  less  anxiety  about  my  costume 
than  on  the  preceding  evening.  Mrs.  Green 
met  me  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  with  a  beautiful 
rose,  the  diamond  drops  still  clinging  to  it.  I 
fastened  it  among  the  braids  of  my  hair  and 
went  out  on  the  veranda  to  wait  for  breakfast. 
I  had  mistaken  the  rising  bell  for  the  call  to 
breakfast.  It  was  not  long  before  Mr.  Wilton 
came  in  search  of  me,  und  Mrs.  Green  soon  af- 
ter summoned  us  to  the  smoking  coffee,  hot  rolls, 
and  other  c  Ucacies  for  which  she  was  so  famous. 
I  was  actually  ashamed  of  my  appetite,  and  con- 


m 


J 


170 


One  Quiet  Life, 


eluded  for  the  future  to  beg  a  luncheon  from 
Mrs.  Green  before  coming  to  table.  "  Ah,  me  ! " 
my  next  thought  was,  "  I  am  getting  demoralized 
altogether,  but  I  won't  mar  the  blessedness  of  my 
morning's  communion  with  de!?I)airing  thoughts." 

After  prayers  Miss  Wilton  asked  her  brother 
his  plans  for  the  day's  recreation.  He  turned  to 
me,  anr'  said:  "What  would  you  like,  Dora? 
we  shall  be  entirely  at  your  disposal  for  a  week." 

"  You  must  not  saj'  that,"  I  replied,  while  I 
blushed  painfully  at  the  thought  of  having  so 
much  attention  paid  to  my  insignificant  self. 
"  I  shall  only  be  satisfied  remaining  here,  by  not 
interrupting  your  arrangements  at  all." 

"  Mrs.  Dutton  must  bo  visited  before  any  of 
your  other  friends,  I  presume,"  Mr.  Wilton  said 
playfully. 

"  My  mind  leads  me  more  strongly  in  that  di- 
rection than  any  other,"  I  replied. 

Miss  Wilton  said  very  decidedly :  "  You  must 
stay  away  a  very  little  while  then,  for  I  intend 
keeping  you  here  most  of  the  time." 


I 


■t 


■OR 


I.i',t.l.,l»; 


;heon  from 
■'Ah,  me!" 
lemoralized 
Ineas  of  my 
thoughts." 
lier  brother 
B  turned  to 
ike,  Dora? 
jr  a  week." 
id,  while  I 
having  so 
ficant  self, 
ere,  ]by  not 

fore  any  of 
iViltou  said 

in  that  di- 

'  You  must 
>r  I  intend 


I 


Old  Friends. 


171 


*•  You  did  not  know  she  fell  in  love  with  you 
at  the  examination,  Dora  ?  " 

"  It  must  have  been  on  account  of  my  cotton 

1 

dress,"  I  laughed  lightly  to  hide  my  pleasure  at 
knowing  she  liked  me. 

"  It  could  not  have  been  with  yourself,  I  sup- 
pose. Ah  I  Dora,  my  child,  you  will  never  learn 
your  actual  worth,  I  fear."  He  shook  his  head 
as  though  my  case  were  desperate. 

I  went  first  that  morning  to  see  Mrs.  Dutton. 
That  good  woman  had  heard  of  my  arrival,  and 
a  general  scrubbing  cI  chairs,  and  floors,  and 
faces,  had  ensued. 

The  children  were  arranged  against  the  kitchen 
wall  in  higb-backed  chairs.  Mr.  Dutton  was  in 
the  house  wben  I  went  in ;  I  found  him  poring 
over  one  of  his  few  books;  whether  he  was 
searching  for  another  name  or  not  I  could  not 
tell.  By  the  row  of  olive  plants  against  the 
wall  I  thought  the  poor  man  had  contributed  his 
quota  to  the  country's  popu,'  lion. 

lu  an  unusually  long  speech  for  him  to  make 


'  i, 


■WMMMMMMNMWMltfta 


MHi 


\r 


172 


One  Quiet  Life. 


I 


he  welcomed  me  home,  at  the  same  time  making 
some  flattering  remark  about  the  way  they  all 
had  missed  me.  I  could  not  help  thinking  Mrs. 
Button  had  prompted  the  speech  in  some  recent 
curtain  lecture.  However  that  may  be,  she  sup- 
plemented his  few  remarks  in  a  most  voluble 
manner,  expressing  both  for  herself  and  children 
their  gladness  at  seeing  me. 

To  turn  the  current  of  her  remarks,  I  ex- 
pressed my  astonishment  at  the  change  they  had 
all  undergone,  from  Clementine,  down  to  the 
latest  nestling  on  her  mother's  knee  —  my  own 
little  namesake.  They  were  beginning  .to  grow 
tremulous  on  their  high-backed  chairs,  such  long 
quiet  being  contrary  to  their  custom,  so,  after  I 
had  shaken  hands  all  around,  and  kissed  each 
one  of  them,  their  mother  released  them  from 
their  high  positions. 

"  Where  is  Ashy  ?  "  was  my  first  inquiry.  ' 

"  Him  gone  to  meet  'oo,"  piped  little  Seraph- 
ina. 

"Just  hear  the  dailing,"  her  mother  raptur- 


I 


■  iryniqrm 


me  making 
ly  they  all 
inking  Mrs. 
lome  recent 
be,  she  sup- 
ost  voluble 
nd  children 

irks,  I  ex- 
je  they  had 
)wn  to  the 
—  my  own 
ing  to  grow 
3,  such  long 
I,  so,  after  I 
kissed  each 
them  from 

iquiry.  ' 
btle  Seraph- 

iher  raptur- 


Old  Friends. 


178 


L 


ously  exclaimed,  as  she  lifted  the  little  prattler 
to  a  seat  on  her  voluminous  lap.  In  a  few  min- 
utes Ashy  came  in.  We  had  missed  each  other 
on  the  way.  I  was  surprised  to  see  how  he  had 
improved. 

"You  have  grown  to  be  a  real  fine-looking 
man,  Ashy." 

"I  am  scarcely  a  man  yet,  but  hope  to  be 
someday,  Dora." 

"  He  is  beginning  manly  business  anyway.  I 
expect  to  see  him  at  the  head  of  a  family  before 
long."  As  his  mother  spoke  I  detected  a  flush, 
not  exactly  of  pleasure,  I  thought,  pass  over  his 
face. 

"  It  is  what  we  must  all  come  to,  1  suppose." 
I  turned  around  as  I  heard  Axy's  voice,  and 
found  him  the  same  stout,  broad-shouldered  boy 
I  had  left  a  year  ago. 

As  I  sat  chatting  with  Mrs.  Dutton,  I  won- 
dered how  I  could  so  soon  have  forgotten  how 
■straitened  were  her  accommodations.  I  soon 
asked  for  the  key  of  the  house  I  was  so  anxious 


-^1 


HiiHi' 


174 


One  Quiet  Life. 


to  revisit;  the  old  home  held  far  strougei'  at- 
tractions than  Mrs.  ^Button's  crowded  house. 
Wishing  to  have  a  Utile  while  to  myself  first, 
and  fearing  that  Ashy  would  wish  to  accompany 
me,  I  said  as  I  was  leaving :  "  Will  you  come  up 
by  and  by,  I  have  a  good  deal  I  want  to  say  to 
you?" 

He  readily  promised.  As  I  walked  up  the 
now  grass-covered  lane,  how  many  memories 
were  revived.  There  was  the  rustic  seat  Ash^ 
had  rudely  built  for  me,  where  I  used  to  watch 
for  the  children  with  Marco  lying  at  my  feet,  in 
those  long  ago  days  of  childhood.  Marco  had 
been  dead  years  and  years ;  how  distinctly  I  rec- 
ollected the  morning  he  died !  What  a  wretched 
day  it  was  to  us,  and  with  what  a  full  heart  I 
helped  Ashy  bury  him  in  the  graveyard  near  the 
currant  bush. 

There  was  Hill  Difficulty,  and  the  Enchanted 
Grounds  and  various  other  spots  named  from 
our  favorite  book  of  reference,  an  old  illustrated 
copy  of  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


tmm 


*  "■•*?*'  ■-'?  »— :;."-ry;?^>.  *Tli.'  ■ " 


Old  Friends. 


175 


rougcr  at- 
ed  house. 
Itself  first, 
iccompany 
a  come  up 
;  to  say  to 

d  up  the 
memories 
seat  Ash^y 
to  watch 
ly  feet,  in 
larco  had 
itly  I  rec- 
wretched 
11  heart  I 
1  near  the 

Enchanted 
ned  from 
llustrated 


As  I  n  eared  the  house  I  found  things  so  uu-' 
changed,  I  could  scarcely  realize  that  a  year 
had  passed  away,  since  I  stood  at  the  gate,  look- 
ing over  the  green  meadows  that  lay  embowered 
as  in  a  nest  of  leaves,  and  took  a  tearful  farewell 
of  the  beloved  spot.  I  unlocked  the  door  ;  the 
key  grated  harshly  in  the  lock;  as  I  stepped 
into  the  narrow  passage,  and  saw  the  well- 
remembered  furnishings,  a  hundred  memories 
crowded  upon  me.  I  glanced  into  the  low  par- 
lor, almost  expecting  my  father's  voice  bidding 
me  welcome,  while  such  a  feeling  of  loneliness 
and  awe  came  over  me  T  could  not  endure  the 
stillness,  1  ut  stepped  quickly  out  into  the  fresh, 
sunny  air ;  I  opened  the  shutter,  and  then  setting 
wide  the  door  I  crossed  the  parlor  threshold, 
which  was  now  flooded  with  the  summer  sun- 
light. I  went  through  all  the  rooms ;  the  library 
was  still  remaining  as  we  had  left  it  after 
father's  death;  the  books  lying  on  the  tables 
and  shelves  as  he  had  last  left  them,  with  the 
unfinished  manuscript  where  he  had  been  writ- 
ing a  few  days  before  lie  died,  lying  with  the 


. 

«(''>•»• 


176 


One  Quiet  Life. 


pen  rusting  beside  it.  My  mother  never  ^vislied 
the  room  arranged  differently,  and  while  she 
lived  always  cleaned  and  attended  to  it  herself. 
The  family  Bible,  which  was  older  than  myself, 
was  on  the  table  j  I  opened  it  and  through  the 
blinding  tears  I  read  those  words  which  had  so 
often  brought  comfort  to  my  mother's  bereaved 
heart,  Christ's  parting  words  to  his  disciples. 

I  soon  found  the  silence  too  oppressive,  the 
recollections  too  painful,  and  gladly  withdrew  to 
what  was  our  well-kept  garden;  the  shrubbeiy. 
was  still  flourishing  luxuriantly,  although  there 
was  an  air  of  dreariness  about  it.    A  few  roses 
were  blooming,  and  some  hardy  perennials  that 
had  maintained  a  desolate  existence,  amid  the 
weeds  and  grass,  were  shedding  their  sweetness 
about  me.     Ashy  soon  after  joined  me,  when  we 
sat  down  on  the  shady  doorstep  and  chatted  for 
a  long  time.     From  his  manner  of  speaking  I 
concluded  the  f;;-st  ardor  of  his  attachment  for 
the  pretty  schoolmistress  had  worn  off  and  would 
fade  entirely  away,  long  before  he  would  be  in 
a  position  to  marry. 


mgmmmamai 


•9  9  "iffpmi  jjw».;-*"''-''-^M'*-ij^fA^w!y*»g'.|)iit'!c- 


tOld  Friends. 


177 


ever  ^vislied 
1  while  she 
to  it  herself, 
han  myself, 
ihrough  the 
hich  had  so 
•'s  bereaved 
isciples. 
ressive,  the 
vithdrew  to 
3  shrubbeiy. 
ough  there 
\.  few  roses 
snnials  that 
I  amid  the 
•  sweetness 
!,  when  we 
chatted  for 
speaking  I 
Jhment  for 
and  would 
ould  be  in 


After  we  had  been  talking  busily  for  some 
time,  be  said  abruptly  : 

"  I  shall  not  take  any  more  of  your  money, 
Dora ;  I  have  despised  myself  all  the  time  for 
doing  so,  and  I  am  working  at  anything  I  can 
find  to  do,  in  order  to  get  means  to  repay  you. 
I  can  make  my  own  way  in  the  world  without 
being  helped  by  anyone  weaker  than  myself." 

"  I  should  like  still  to  help  you.  Ashy,  work- 
ing for  others  seems  to  be  nearly  all  that  I  have 
to  live  for  now." 

"  I  am  beginning  to  think  there  is  little  else 
worth  living  for,"  Ashy  answered,  rather  gloom- 
ily. 

"Oh,  no.  Ashy  I  not  when  we  have  dear 
friends  and  relatives  to  love  and  to  retui'n  our 
affection ;  but  there  are  stray  beings  like  myself 
sent  into  the  world  t©  live  for  others  far  more 
detolate  still  then  they.  It  is  well  if  we  learn 
to  be  satisfied  with  our  mission,"  I  said,  a  little 
bitterly.  I  was  beginning  to  find,  the  last  few 
hours  especially,  how  difficult  it  was  for  me  to 
learn  that  lesson.  . 


■luaiMii  naMitaidiiaw^^H 


^    f* 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  SUEPRISE, 

remained  away  so  long  that  Mr.  Wilton 
came  to  seek  me.  I  had  been  indulging 
in  such  melancholy  thoughts  my  cheeks  had 
caught  their  hue,  and  when  he  saw  me,  he 
said,  with  something  of  the  teacher's  command 
in  his  voice,  which  I  used  occasionally  to  detect, 
**  You  must  stay  with  us  the  remainder  of  the 
day,  and  we  cannot  allow  you  to  come  up  here 
alone  again."  *> 

I  willingly  submitted  to  his  command. 

Mrs.  Green  bad  the  table  laid,  and  dinner  was 

waiting  when  we  reached  the  parsonage.     I  had 

never  dined  here  since  my  mother's  death. 
178 


Ir.  Wilton 
indulging 
lieeks  had 
w  iue,  he 
command 
to  detect, 
ier  of  the 
le  up  here 

d.     ■' 
inner  was 
:e.    I  had 
ath. 


A  SurprUe. 


179 


*'  It  seems  as  though  mother  should  bd  here," 
I  said  half-unconsciously.  I  had  been  thinking 
so  much  about  her  that  morning  it  seemed  she 
was  about  me. 

"  You  must  not  stay  there  alone  so  long  again, 
you  will  get  to  be  a  spirit  yourself,"  Miss  Wilton 
said. 

*'  I  shall  not  wish  to  go  away  from  here  again," 
I  replied,  and  I  felt  the  truth  of  what  I  was  say- 
ing.    Every  momeftt  seemed  precious. 

We  dined  in  our  morning-dresses,  the  day  was 
so  warm,  and  Mr.  Wilton  had  come  to  conform 
to  the  country  fashion  of  noonday  dinner  hour. 

We  went  up-stairs  directly  after  dinner,  to 
dress.  Miss  Wilton  to  take  a  short  siesta  first. 
My  robing  occupied  but  a  veiy  little  while,  and 
I  was  soon  ready  for  a  stroll  tlirough  the  beauti- 
ful grounds,  every  year  growing  more  beautiful, 
or  for  a  chat  with  any  one  whom  I  might  chance 
to  meet.  ;  . 

As  I  passed  the  drawing-room  door,  Mr.  Wil- 
ton called  me.  The  blinds  were  drawn,  and  a 
very  acceptable  coolness  pervaded  the    room. 


mmimimmmmmaimaam ' 


180 


One  Quiet  Lift. 


"  You  do  not  think  of  going  out  in  this  burn- 
ing sun  ?  "  ho  asked,  as  he  saw  me  with  a  garden 
hat  in  my  hand. 

"  I  came  down-stairs  ready  for  any  enjoyment 
that  I  might  meet,"  I  replied  smilingly. 

"  Won't  you  come  then  and  have  an  old-fash- 
ioned chat  ?  " 

He  made  room  for  me  on  the  couch  where  he 
had  been  resting ;  while  I  willingly  responded  to 
his  request,  and  hung  my  hat"  on  the  peg  aj_'ain, 
and  took  the  proffered  seat. 

He  asked,  glancing  quietly  at  me  :  "  Docs  it 
seem  like  old  times  to  be  sitting  here  beside  me, 
Dora?" 

"  It  seems  far  better.  I  believe  I  have  learned 
since  I  went  away  how  pleasant  those  times 
•wert." 

My  heart  throbbed  with  pain  when  I  recol- 
lected how  quickly  tliis  delightful  visit  would  be 
a  blessed  dream  of  the  past. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  like  to  be  with  us,  that 
you  have  not  forgotten  your  brother." 

"  I  told  you  once  I  could  never  do  that." 


A  Surprise. 


181    * 


this  burn- 
a  gardeu 

injoymeut 
I  old-fash- 
where  he 
ponded  to 
)eg  ttj_'am, 

"  Docs  it 
:)e8ide  me, 

ve learned 
.ose  times 

1  I  recol- 
p  would  be 

;h  us,  that 

do  that." 


There  was  an  undertone  of  pain  in  my  voice. 
"Would  that  I  loved  him  only  as  a  brother  1" 
yet  as  I  reflected  in  the  few  moments,  silence 
that  I  nsued,  I  asked  myself  if  I  wished  it  other- 
wise. I  could  not  but  feel  ennobled  to  have 
loved  such  a  man  ;  I  consoled  myself  with  think- 
ing that  it  was  impossible  to  love  what  was  good 
'    and  noble  without  coming  to  be  like  it. 

Mr.  Wilton  broke  the  silence  at  last,  by  ask- 
ing : 

» Have  you  found  the  woman's  heart  yet, 

Dora?" 

I  wondered  at  the  suppressed  eagerness  in  his 
voice.  The  room  was  light  enough  for  him  to 
see  the  crimson  flame  that  spread  over  my  face. 
I  did  not  answer  his  question. 

"  You  have  the  woman's  heart,  I  see  that  now, 
Dora.    Must  I  always  remain  your  brother  ?  " 

His  eyes  were  reading  my  face,  but  I  could 
not  answer  his  question,  although  there  was  a 
strange  joy  faintly  implied. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  years  for  my  little 


'=■=•.* 


•  I 


182 


One  Quiet  Life. 


girl  to  find  her  woman's  heait.     Can  that  heart 
now  belong  to  another  ?  " 

IIo  was  standing  now  beside  me.    After  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  he  continued: 

♦'  I  shall  never  love  any  one,  have  never  loved 
any  one,  as  I  do  you  ;  my  gladdest  anticipation 
for  years,  has  been  the  hope  of  claiming  you  for 
life.  Perhaps  I  may  lose  you  altogether  by  this  * 
confession.  I  have  hitherto  restrained  myself 
from  speaking  to  you,  only  by  a  determined  ef- 
fort of  my  will.  I  can  only  lose  you,  and  I  must 
know  uiv  fate." 

With  a  sob  of  joy  I  looked  up  for  a  moment  in 
his  flushed,  eloquent  face  j  he  read  my  heart  in 
that  short  look. 

"  Is  it  true  ?  "  he  said,  with  his  arms  about 
me. 

I  bowed  my  head.  Someway  I  could  not  find 
my  voice  to  speak  even  one  short  monosyllable 
just  then. 

"  When  did  you  find  your  heart,  Dorothy  ?  " 

"That  night  you    kissed  me  in  the  hall,"  I 


that  heart 

Lfter  a  mo- 

ever loved 
Qtioipation 
ng  you  for 
her  by  this 
eJ  myself 
I'tniued  ef- 
lud  I  must 

moment  ia 
y  heart  iu 

'ma  about 

d  not  find 
nosyllablo 


jrothy  ?  " 
0  hall,"  I 


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k 


A  Surprise. 


183 


I 


k 


whispered.    "  Yes,  and  I  have  been  hungering 
ever  since  for  another  of  those  rare  kisses." 

We  virere  still  sitting  in  a  most  exalted  frame 
of  mind,  when  I  heard  hia  sister's  footstep  on  the 
stair. 

"Will  she  be  willing  to  receive  me  as  her  sis- 
ter ?  "  I  had  time  to  ask  hurriedly. 

His  answer  reassured  my  frightened  heart,  and 
still  more  the  fervor  of  her  greeting,  when  he  ex- 
plained the  state  of  our  affairs  fully  to  her,  satis- 
fied my  most  exacting  desires.  After  we  had 
chatted  a  little  while,  she  said  : 

"  I  have  some  calls  to  make  this  afternoon,  so  I 
won't  intrude  any  longer  on  your  first  happy 

hours." 

"  May  I  go  with  you  ?  I  shall  not  begin  my 
happiness  by  being  selfish.  I  know  you  would 
like  your  brother  to  accompany  you  also." 

"  That  is  true,  but  I  will  not  be  so  exacting  as 
to  expect  either  of  you  to-day;  I  presume  you 
have  still  much  to  say." 

She  was  correct,  as  we  had  only  just  begun  to 


IIUJ.IJ.  11  J.iLHiUUIJHUUflU  1*1- 


u 


lil  One  Quiet  Life. 

come  down  to  things  sublunary  when  she  came 

"  There  will  be  time  enough  for  that  again,"  I 
replied,  as  I  started  for  my  hat  and  parasol. 

"  You  have  not  got  permission  to  leave  yet,  re- 
member, you  are  free  no  longer." 

She  looked  mischievously  at  her  brother.  I 
looked  too,  and  imagined  he  would  have  pre- 
ferred the  afternoon  spent  with  me  in  the  shaded 
drawing-room. 

I  soon  returned  equipped  for  the  walk.  We 
called  first  at  Mrs.  Mounts,  I  found  her  as  cor- 
dial as  ever.  In  the  course  of  conversation,  she 
was  kind  enough  to  say  : 

«  We  have  heard  such  good  ac^-ounts  of  you 
as  a  teacher  that  we  have  thought  it  would  be 
an  excellent  plan  for  you  to  establish  a  select 
school  here.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good 
plan  ?  "  she  asked,  appealing  to  Mr.  Wilton. 

I  blushed  painfully,  although  I  was  eager  to 
hear  what  he  might  think  of  the  proposal. 
"Really,  I  could  not  advise."    I  saw  a  merry 


■HI 


en  she  came 

hat  again,"  I 
parasol, 
eave  yet,  re- 

■  brother.  I 
i  have  pre- 
n  the  shaded 

walk.    We 

her  as  cor- 

ersation,  she 

•unts  of  you 
it  would  be 
•lish  a  select 
Id  be  a  good 
V\^ilton. 
as  eager  to 

:30Sal. 

saw  a  merry 


A  Surprise, 


185 


twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  he  answered  her  question. 

"  My  wife  likes  to  encourage  home  manufact- 
ure," the  squire  said.  "  I  .expect  she  will  have 
our  Tom  settle  here,  when  he  gets  his  profession, 
even  if  he  should  be  in  danger  of  starving  to 
death.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Wilton,  do  you  know 
the  magistrates  blame  you  for  the  scarcity  of  lit- 
igation?" "  ^ 

After  this  the  conversation  became  general, 
and  I  was  no  longer  fearful  lest  Jennie  should 
discover  our  secret.  She  was  scarcely  more  gra- 
cious than  formerly,  responding  very  coldly  to 
any  advances  of  friendliness  I  attempted. 

That  evening,  when  alone,  before  retiring,  I 
said  to  Miss  Wilton : 

"  I  wonder  why  she  dislikes  me  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  dear,  she  is  jealous  of  you.  I  fan- 
cied I  saw  it  long  ago.    Slie  has  sharp  eyes." 

"  Well,  we  are  even  then,  for  I  have  been 
troubled  because  of  her."  ' 

I  had  found  such  hearty  welcomes  in  all  the 
homes,  whether  rich  or  poor,  where  I  hud  called 
that  afternoon,  that  I  said  to  Miss  Wilton : 


s«iatt-TritNsr-iy.T?rBi7trrnr3gi3^=jlg 


Wm 


180 


One  Quiet  Life. 


"  I  wish  I  could  lengthen  out  my  holidays  six 
months." 

"Why  do  you  not  say  sixty  years?  I  hope 
they  will  last  that  long."  ' 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  asked  wonderingly. 

•'  Why,  we  shall  never  let  you  go  back  to  that 
hard  life.  I  assure  you,  my  brother  has  no  in- 
tentio5  of  losing  you  again." 

"  Ah  I  but  I  have  given  my  promise,  I  can- 
not bi«eak  that,"I  replied  with  a  feeling  of  glad 
ness,  to  chink  I  had  so  promised.  I  was  next  to 
penniless  and  in  debt ;  I  could  not  think  of  com- 
ing even  to  my  husband,  under  such  circumstan- 
ces. 

"  You  will  soon  find,  sister  mine,  those  objec- 
tions overruled,"  was  the  decided  rejoinder. 

I  held  my  peace,  but  my  mind  was  neverthe- 
*  less  firmly  made  up  on  that  one  point,  at  least. 


■ 


I 


ly  holidays  six 
'ears  ?    I  hope 

« 

wonderingly. 

0  back  to  that 
ler  has  no  in- 

romise,  I  can- 
jeling  of  glad 

1  was  next  to 
think  of  com- 
li  circumstan- 

I  those  objec- 
ejoinder. 
i^as  neverthe- 
nt,  at  least. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


MABBYINa. 


HAT  same  evening,  at  the  tea  table,  Mr. 
Wilton  asked  me  to  take  a  short  drive, 
of  course,  I  readily  acquiesced.  In  the  early 
twilight  we  started  for  a  leisurely  trot  across  the 
long  bridge,  and  into  the  next  township  for  a 
little  way.    As  we  drove  along  he  said : 

"  I  thought  there  might  be  sad  associations  for 
you  if  we  drove  along  the  accustomed  lanes  and 
streets  of  our  tillage.  I  want  our  drive  to-night 
to  be  all  glad."  -- 

"I  would  not  but  be  happy  anywhere  with 

you,"  I  whispered  softly. 
187 


mAAmmtffmimtmiiitmitk   iiJi^rf»wd 


188 


On,    Quiet  Life. 


"  Then  you  must  never  leave  me  again,"  was 
the  decided  answer.  • 

♦'  I  have  promised  Mr.  Kye  to  return.  I  must 
not  forfeit  my  word." 

"I  can  easily  make  that  all  right.  I  know 
several  ladies  who  will  gladly  take  your  situa- 
tion." ,.    ,  ^ 

•'  I  have  received  my  first  quarter's  salary ;  I 
cannot  be  in  debt  any  longer."  I  felt  my  cheeks 
crimson,  I  was  ashamed  of  my  indebtedness 
every  time  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  now  neaily 
empty  purse.  " 

"My  dear  child,  a  quarter's  salary  is  a  mere 
nothing,  I  will  gladly  settle  that ;  I  would  con- 
sider it  scarcely  worth  a  thought  given  to  a 
mere  acquaintance,  what  will  it  be  then,  when 
given  for  you?" 

♦'  It  is  a  great  deal  to  me,  and  I  must  pay  it 
myself."     •  .  ^ 

"You  will  at  least  accept  a  loan  from  me, 
Dora?    You  may  liave  a  dozen  years  credit." 

"  I  should  only  be  getting  more  hopelessly  in- 
volved all  those  years,  I  fear." 


Marrying. 


189 


me  agam,"  was 

eturn.    I  must 

iglit.    I  know 
ke  your  situa- 

rter's  salary ;  I 

felt  my  cheeks 

indebtedness 

ihe  now  neai'ly 

[ary  is  a  mere 

I  would  con- 

bt  given  to  a 

be  then,  when 

I  must  pay  it 

oan  from  me, 
ars  credit." 
hopelessly  in- 


"All  that  I  possess  would  not  equal  in  my 
estimation  this,  that  you  have  promised  me  this 
afternoon,"  and  he  folded  my  hand  iu  his.  See- 
ing that  I  was  determined, *he  said  at  last: 
"  Will  you  let  me  come  for  you  at  the  end  of 
the  quarter?  I  cannot  wait  longer  than  that  for 
my  wife." 

My  holidays  passed  only  too  quickly.  I  spent 
a  good  many  leisure  moments  with  Mrs.  Dutton, 
her  rapidly  developing  children  taxed  her  needle 
severely,  while  her  mechanical  abilities  were 
none  of  the  best. 

I  met  the  object  of  Ashy's  affection  and  found 
het  quite  pretty,  but  not  the  person  I  would 
have  chosen  for  my  boy.  He  saw  that  I  was 
disappointed  but  it  did  not  trouble  him.  A 
boy's  first  love  generally  wears  off  in  a  little 
while,  and  Ashy  was  not  an  exception  to  the 
general  rule.  I  was  only  glad  the  glamour  had 
passed  from  his  eyes,  and  heart,  before  it  was 
too  late,  as  is  so  often  the  case. 

When  I  went  back  to  my  school  duties  I 
found  them  someway  to  be  unusually  light.    I 


190 


One  Quiet  Life. 


found  leisure  every  week  to  visit  my  sick  hospi- 
tal friends. 

Before  we  had  been  an  hour  together,  Dr. 
Dowse  said :         • 

"Allow  me  to  congratulate  you,  my  dear 
friend  on  your  happiness.  I  see  it  in  your  face 
and  I  am  glad  for  you." 

But  I  could  not  detect  any  gladness  either  in 
his  face  or  voice. 

He  invariably  drove  me  home  and  was  as 
kind  as  ever,  but  he  never  spoke  of  my  ap- 
proaching marriage  with  Mr.  Wilton. 

My  one  great  perplexity  during  those  weeks 
was,  where  I  should  obtain  the  really  necessary 
articles  to  make  me  presentable  as  a  bride.  One 
day  I  was  pondering  as  usual,  only  becoming 
the  more  anxious  as  the  days  went  by,  when  it 
occurred  to  me  that  I  might  sell  to  some  advan- 
tage a  few  of  the  many  sheets  of  music  I  had 
been  diligently  composing  for  several  months, 
and  which  had  already  received  Professor  Auhl- 
man's  favorable  commendation. 
1    I  selected  a  few  of  the  best,  and  at  the  earliest 


.     •    • 

my  siok  hospi- 

together,  Dr. 

|rou,  my  dear 

t  in  your  faoo 

dness  either  in 

9  and  was  as 

£6  of  my  ap- 

;on. 

^  those  weeks 
ally  necessary 
a  bride.  One 
nly  becoming 
at  by,  when  it 
0  some  advan- 
f  music  I  had 
veral  months, 
rofessor  Auhl- 

at  the  earliest 


Marrying. 


W 


opportunity  started  for  the  publisher.     When  I    , 
was  shown  into  his  office  and  had  delivered  my 
manuscript,  I  trembled  a  little. 

I  was  promised  an  answer  in  a  few  days. 
Probably  he  saw  I  was  anxious,  and  his  heart 
may  have  warmed  kindly  towards  me.  At  the 
appointed  time  I  appeared  for  a  reply,  and  was 
overjoyed  to  learn  that  my  compositions  had  been 
accepted,  and  sufficient  compensation  awai-ded  to 
procure  a  few  of  the  necessary  articles. 

I  was  obliged  to  make  Mrs.  Kye  my  confidante, 
I  needed  her  assistance  so  greatly.  Her  manner 
led  me  to  suspect  that  it  was  not  news  to  her. 

"  Did  Mr.  Wilton  tell  you  ?  "  I  asked.     , 

"  He  did  not  tell  me." 

•'  Did  he  tell  the  doctor,  then  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  "  she  answered  evasively. 

"  Because  I  see  it  in  your  face  that  you  know 

it-" 

"  You  cannot  blame  Mr.  Wilton  for  telling  his 

own  secret?"  she  asked,  smilingly. 

At  the  end  of  the  term,  by  diligent  persever- 
ance and  the  sale  of  a  few  more  sheets  of  music. 


M 


One  Quiet  Life^ 

I  found  myself  out  of  debt,  and  ready  for  my 
brother,  that  once  was,  when  he  might  come  to 
claim  me. 

lie  did  come  at  the  appointed  time,  and  in  the 
beautiful  church,  where  his  mother  and  sisters 
woi-shiped,  and  where  he,  too,  in  his  boyhood  had 
learned  the  way  to  Heaven,  he  received  me  ns 
his  bride. 

In  our  peaceful  home,  in  the  quiet  village,  I 
find  my  days  gliding  evenly  by.  Among  the 
friends  of  my  girlhood,  none  are  more  highly 
honored  than  Dr.  Dowse. 

Our  little  Meta  seems  the  light  of  his  eyes. 
Some*  day  we  expect  to  call  him  brother^  when 
our  dear  sister  will  make  his  home  as  happy  as 
our  own  has  been. 

Ashy  has  matured  into  a  useful  and  earnest 
man.  Mrs.  Dutton  is  still  busy  with  her  family 
caies,  but  there  are  no  longer  little  children 
clinging  to  her  knees.  Alexandrina  is  soon  to 
be  married,  an  event  which,  in  her  good  moth- 
er's eyes,  is  of  vast  importance. 

I  find  my  life  grows  brighter  as  the  years  ad- 


* 


ff'iA,' 


Marrying, 


103 


ready  for  my 
liglit  come  to 

le,  and  iu  the 
er  and  sisters 
I  boyhood  bad 
loeived  me  as 

liet  village,  I 

Among  the 

more  highly 

t  of  his  eyes, 
jrotheri  when 
e  as  happy  as 

I  and  earnest 
ith  her  family 
ttle  children 
na  is  soon  to 
r  good  moth- 

the  years  ad- 


vance,  and  I  am  convinced  it  will  continue  t(»  do 
80  until  my  life  on  earth  is  merged  in  the  upflnd- 
ing  existence  of  Heaven,  if  I  continue  to  live  as 
1  believe  God  has  tauglit  me.  I  do  not  find  a 
state  on  earth  free  from  care,  and  a  meastire  of 
imperfection,  but  I  have  found  that  our  lives  can 
be  made  very  grand  and  lovely. 

I  have  proved  the  wisdom  of  my  father's  dy- 
ing admonition.  My  purest  happiness  has  como 
from  following  that  advice,  by  living  not  for  my- 
self, but  to  make  those  happier  and  better  who 
are  about  me,  or  at  least  to  earnestly  endeavor 
so  to  do. 


'iiii 


r 


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